The Slow Hour

 

At 8 AM, the cliffs are gold,

 Sunlight wraps them soft and bold. 

The breeze is shy, the waves still play, 

 It's a lazy start to a soulful day.

Cafés yawn with open doors, 

The smell of coffee hugs the shores.

Barefoot monks and sleepy eyes,

 Stretch under palm-fringed lullabies.

Fishermen return with tales in nets, 

While beach dogs chase the morning jets.

Surfers wax boards with silent cheer,

 The sea invites-so calm, so clear.

Yoga mats on rooftop tiles,

 Sun salutes and gentle smiles. 

Backpackers sip their herbal brew, 

As sky and ocean melt to blue.

No rush, no horns, no dusty haze, 

Just coconut trees in morning praise.

Locals sweep their porches clean, 

The vibe is slow, the air serene.

A chai shop hums with stories new, 

Of yesterday's rain, of skies so blue.

 Books are opened, journals too, 

Because Varkala inspires you to.

This is not your 9-to-5, 

It's where vour spirit learns to thrive.

At 8 AM with salt and time 

Varkala breathes with quite rhyme

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