Postcard from Mumbai

That familiar italic hand,
in pukka, Indian ink
the sunlight chose to fade,
but after all, you were
a daughter of Leo.

Those few precious lines
are part of the ether now...
yet a trace still remains;
your name, and a kiss
that my fingers cherish.

And that customary
flourish of your pen
at the end – like an ‘S’
on its side as if you knew
time was running short.

“This is me,” you wrote,
“with the worst brass band
in India...I’m the one without
a moustache, just in case
you’d not twigged...to the right
of the frangipani tree.

Oh, and wish you were here.”

So do I...more times
than you can imagine.