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The Intruder
By Paul Cameron Brown
The colouring of spacious flowers rove delicious to the eye.
The road above the harbour fickle, carousing in its tendency to pull too gray by sky enamelled water.
The tropical foliage, still and languorous, to my touch.
Each particle of sunlight dangling as if hoisted from a perfumed ledge.
Newly mown grass in streaks, browns serpent-like across the path.
Low erogenous puffs of dust are swathed by passing feet.
Near by, bushes wear the foliage of streaked mud as a mantle might cottonwool at Christmas.
Life in such climes is built on connotations rather than pure innuendoes of purpose.
The southern sky, the heat above the sea allude to this.
This triumphant trilogy embossed upon volcanic slate, more crumpled paper than firm land.
Gravesides lying in twilight nakedness.
The scion moon in her damaged vestry between acolyte clouds.
Hamlets resembling clotted blood, nicks across an earmarked horizon.
The poor, wavering to transfixed in their hotly owned sun; the one commodity they rightly possess.
The outpouring sea, loosing herself in bridged inlets, countless points that nudge the land in acknowledged supremacy.
The irrelevance of time, inbreeding of pale intruder.
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