If you were ever to go,

where the mangroves grow

rising in a measured mess of boughs

from dusty mounds of ashen terracotta.

 

Where the waxy gnarled talons do clasp 

together a home for weary walkers beneath.

Where the sails for high like veils  

on a wedding morn, way above the sealed frames.

 

You too, could make a life, inspecting 

Gnashed bones at the cusp of dust in

the gutter, 

and feel a toiled wind sweep by lonely ways 

where once the winds of war did change.

 

Troops don’t swell here anymore 

here there is but the clamour of criers on the Pentecost.

Oh, but in the hearth of a home, 

one could feel to be a jewel of rare quality 

set firm in the dizzying symphony 

another soul joined in the chorus of sirocco.