1
Moths, if they dream dusk,
sport esurient hip-flasks on their wings -
gangster rum-runners better to sully dark,
traverse caravans of colour
amid silk-routes
to dazzle Prester John,
cork unscrew the unicorn horn askew.
2
Compte de la Mothe
escadrilles/flotillas
D'Entrecasteaux
with Bougainville discovering
well, Bougainvillaea and I,
latter day la Perouse,
cunningly amuck on coral
adoration and wine,
(red as scarlet leaves)
chenille, frangipanni and the Marquis house colours
of the flame-bitten tropics.
3
Let me scandalize why.
Watch the sea churn
to white bubbles then coat
your nostril with brine
to run a finger
down brown skin passing
for the Bronze Age.
4
Notice the invention of sun,
a cloak suspended
in a canopy-canoe profusion
(left over from the first dawn,)
oasis of calm,
patter of motes and beams.
Garden of Shalimar.
5
My sentiments exactly.