A dot in the sky
prepares to join up
with dots on the ground,
as our plane comes in to land
at Changi. Banks of orchids
deck the lounge;
to us their scentlessness
seems soulless.
After dry Mediterranean heat,
humidity is oppressive,
the city smells are alien
to hellenised olfactories:
instead of oregano, olives,
carbon fumes, retsina, raki,
there is a melange of spices
pungently announcing Asia.
Heaven swelters and perspires.
Silently it starts to rain.
Hastily we purchase an umbrella,
silver over puce, turning the smug
adage about linings inside-out,
reversal of desire resetting lives,
fast forward to rewind.
A cloud has followed us from Greece,
a small nuage of secret grief
that huddles with us underneath
our mercury-magenta dome.
It wants to find out where we live,
and make that place its home.
A Silver Umbrella in Singapore
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2005
Свидетельство о публикации №105042300226
Свидетельство о публикации №105042300226
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Вы чудесно пишете, Jena!
Сингапур буквально осязаем и обоняем -
Эта душащая влажная подушка воздуха.
Н.Н. 23.04.2005 18:25 • Заявить о нарушении
Сингапур буквально осязаем и обоняем -
Эта душащая влажная подушка воздуха.
Н.Н. 23.04.2005 18:25 • Заявить о нарушении