Beyond Season, Mist Or Mystery Poem by Ananta Madhavan

Late November, our season changes.
Sun-bright is the early morn, but cloud and mist
Have quite white-washed the sky, the familiar hill
Is veiled. The temple spire and the tall
Metallic tower whose shafted beams of light
Warn fliers of its eminence and imminence at night
Have vanished for now.
Dark or murky dusk
Permit my sure conjecture
Of solid rock and ether, muddy earth and space.
The metropolis and the huts, our tenements
And highways, pathways, connecting circuits
Of cyber-links, tarmac or concrete,
Are but ideas and fancied images,
Insubstantial to physics or chemistry
Or even to Number, Plato's or Bharata's.

We exalted Reason
To penetrate the Season,
The fog of mist or mystery
Of the unknown, beyond equinox and meridian;
We are now free to conjecture the Unknowable.