Where Go the Boats?

Dark brown is the river.   
Golden is the sand.   
It flows along for ever,   
  With trees on either hand.   
   
Green leaves a-floating,        
  Castles of the foam,   
Boats of mine a-boating—   
  Where will all come home?   
   
On goes the river   
  And out past the mill,   
Away down the valley,   
  Away down the hill.   
   
Away down the river,   
  A hundred miles or more,   
Other little children   
  Shall bring my boats ashore.
-R.L. Stevenson

The above poem from the 'Child's Garden of Verse' is one of my favourites, it used to be a part of 

the school English text book as well!

The monsoon invariably brings with a sense of nostalgia. After the blazing hot summer months, so 

deeply moving is the feel of splattering rain drops and the moist cool that they bring, it is almost 

impossible to explain. 

The memories of school days and rainy mornings. The building of islands out of mud. The sailing 

of the paper boats. The acute child-like observation of the earthworms that made their appearance, 

and  slid about like harmless little snakes. The unexpected and joyous rainy-day holidays. My 

childhood birthdays, which came around the time the monsoons were at the most vengeful. The 

whistling winds, causing the tall Ashoka trees to bend against their will, laden with heavy moisture.

Such are my memories of the monsoon season, and so they will always remain. 

Love,
Shubhi!