Flisking back,

a pork-knocker* knee deep

in a land of many rivers

he is a grizzled water-dog

squinting for the perfect tale:-

 

          Even though wanderers of Ploiesti

          defenceless on each tremor

          of the lion –tamer’s whip

          glided steadily to marshes

          their voices lived on

          flourishing five-coloured abayas

          blood-curdlingly by gaslight

          flickering a coal fire.

 

          Movementeers charted Al. Jalamid

          casting for rivers

          to hang flotillas

          and as he (the very witness

          of their niddering malefaction)

          exhaled a flutey breath

-                    from slats of his lungs

came the flight of genus-bees

swilling overtly

wings into sunlight;

morning swimming,

a golden stream.

 

Pulling carts, the Romanies

retreating from giggling blasts

with a constant chatter of the senses

fled black-troupers

led by the Count of Arbatax

 

-                    Ted’s dead now but they still lie

between ditches wild with grass

where the bones are long picked,

murmurs commingle.

 

*Guyanan gold prospector