13 + 1’s Maître D' Domicile Poem by Jayatissa K. Liyanage

Mini bistro, in her wattle ‘n daub dwelling
Every morning, noon and late evening
Platters counted ‘n laid 1,2,3, ......13 + 1
with adjustments, as needed, in a routine

Year in year out, kept on turning, the lunar cycle
Young palm fronds meanwhile touched five meter circle
Fledglings started leaving the nest, one by one
Seeking freedom to have their own reigns

She continued regardless, stuck to her adobe
As if all suckled were waiting to be served
Until one day very late, in her mind, she felt
In a black ghostly holocaust, she is engulfed

Occasionally she used to glance on the big table
Reminiscing her count 1,2,3, ...13 + 1
All days were not all that sunny, she knew
Gloomy days were not that strange either

Once every New Year, most of those platters
found a place on big table, occasionally though
Generations one, two ‘n even three, she witnessed
whilst her follicles were turning greyer and greyer

Beneath trees, her sweat smelled, overcasting abode
she observes sun rising, daily over Rammala hill
Saffron sky held tired sun on the plateau, western
flashed back a myriad memories over a nine decade span

T’ was a night, all close ones couldn’t sleep enough
none realized the dawning of a next day either
News, long awaited, got wings through cosmic space
One by one, near and dear poured in, to behold obvious

Thousands paid homage, day and night alike
All mourned her demise, for qualities she possessed
Hundreds lined up to carry her to where she belonged
very earth she loved ‘n toiled on, to be taken care of

As crimson ball hid beneath skyline afar,
Anthill here dumbfounded, like a nightmare
An aged spinster and a widower, in tired ‘n withered eyes
Gazed at flickering candle flame atop freshly earthed heap