Chekov Retold

No Yalta this, no lilac-hued sea,

Nor the time mid-autumn, but a district town

Of cobwebs and visitants, a night’s journey

From the nearest coast. The March day

Unseasonably hot and the quarter hour,

By a one-armed clock, struck in a bee-hived tower.

From the west a sirocco-like wind blowing,

Dragging a boy’s kite, torn on one side,

To the meagre canopy of a myrobalan tree,

Buffalo cows mooing under it. Further

Up the road, in a margosa’s leafless shade,

Unaware of the wide-eyed passers-by,

A man and a younger woman, his daughter’s age,

Meet like thieves and a lap dog barks.

Where but in fiction are the lives they lead?