This Was My World
p. 38 · Read in the full issue
There was my world ...
Green years of quiet islands, girt by seas Dappled, each morn anew, with smooth and lazy grey.
Half wakeful, from my bungalow of sacsac, high above, I scan the threeway waterview of sun rise charm.
That vied with youngling breeze, trying to swing Into hilarious riot of surf and spray.
Where sunrise spreads gold fingers wide To swell across the strand and tide A harmony of shade and song— The organ notes of day.
Low on the coral-girt lagoon, In answer to the tepi’s whining call, Clear cut as silhouette.
Would glide the fishing parties to the bay.
Narrow and black against the rip’ning day Canoes came, slim dark shadows, on their way. (Foreshores have stirred into a dance of palms Where parrakeets flash through the leafy caves, And night bats leave the pawpaw’s wounded fruit With vivid gaping scars . . .) There was a land of never-ending quest.
A bush track ambled in contortuous charm And led from log steps to the sanded shores.
I. following down the maze-like ways, Noted the season’s bird-notes, or the sways Of opening alamander’s living gold, Or found the rare, rare rose of Papuan passion-flower Trailing its joys above the waterfalls; Trod Persian carpets, toned of lichen leaves, And fronds which vied to form a draping shawl. * * ♦ I now return ...
Leaving this angry milkman on his way.
And curt, resentful fellows to their jobs!
This harried day of papers rarely scanned — For. here, I’m burdened with the many fears and frets.
That dig and doubt each step of city days— These crowded vehicles that spew the fighting mobs.
I know the “simple savage” with his wiles As enemy or friend. He is. or he is not — Until our city culture he has got, And hides his thoughts and hates behind a smile.