Beach Theatre

Some paddocks are just paddocks, but my cows browse in a theatre of green by the silver-sanded shore, where the palm maestros wave their fronded batons conducting the songs of Prima Donna Sea.

When she wears her blue gown with the sun as her crown her song will a lullaby be.

But with change of her dress there’s no hint of caress as she gathers together the reefs as they foam, for, shrieking and lashing; roaring and crashing; she dashes maestros down to the ground where their hearts are cut out for a “millionaire’s salad.”

Then the cows leave their stalls drained. . . only of milk for my tea, and continue to browse— just cows— in a paddock.

A. L. Austin.

Fiji.