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?