The clouds were so strange that day

spilt powder over duck-egg veneer

a clandestine pincer and loose, flaking bough.

the hour the clocks stopped,

and the sea, through fence and fig-grove

breathed one last heavy overture,

(and there was much waving, and there

was solemn prayer, and repeat)

the shadows moved as warning signs

over verdant emerald mesh.

There I looked in ...

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Great poets inspire; we aspire to write only the adequate, the good;

Perhaps the funny or the emotional; and we are satisfied.

Are you the poor homeless beggar that was given

A good kicking by Paul?

Different people from all walks of life

Sharing their love of the written word

Swallowing our different realities

Confined in the rhythm of Thomas

And the dirtiness of Buko...

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