newly drenched orchards

risen without help

great beef-faced men

bribes from both sides

every tinkle, a prayer

news stolen

the right beginning

‘softly, softly, softly is my way

and feared


with lime-washed walls

one heal in the loop of the rope

an old black-clad sneak

shaved twice in one day

that smelly native crowd

twelve tall drums

like hair oil

willful ugliness

live eyes behind it


hopeless, hundreds of them

deep, devilish

bare bald crown

through a viscus sea

the big Fangipani tree near the tennis court


traces of prickly heat

a bottle of Old Tommy Gin

more glory still

would eat out of his hand

the lovey rain

his mustache was so wet from the rain