Dooars Chronicles No. 4

Everything here is in little postcards.
The greens, the tea gardens, the neat cliffs
All captured in a frame,
No grains on the film
The aperture perfect
And the exposure just about right.
The birds caught in flight,
Little hamlets in a distance
Twinkling in suspension.
Even time seems to be bound
Within motionless trees,
And villagers walking to and from from markets.
The same time you wanted,
The same time that for me,
Rushed like a mountain stream
And for you remained stagnant and corroding
Like boulders in the desert.
:Like middle aged housewives at the market
You would bargain,
Haggling for time,
Maybe a few more weeks,
Maybe a month,
And I always,
Lent you Time,
Without charging any Interest.