They never knew you, who only recall
your smashed golds and broken reds:
those flashing conceits, tropes of a night too dark
to spell out by the fading glow of
I.
Single cloud impaled
on a mallard´s cry
I sit
out of range
across a lotus pond
centre of breath
for a tropical Monet
grown silent, eye-hand-brush watching
great
I.
Beware, my sons, of towns founded by gold-miners,
now abandoned in the saddle of a valley.
Before long, parting ways with your muleteers,
you´ll stumble on routes
no
For Richard Lannoy
Mother Goddess
Pepper vines ring the jackfruit tree
that is her shrine. She claims
tributes of colour: indigo is hers,
and saffron, and carmine.
The rain has
