As a poet oft I sit and sweat
With face ablaze as countenance
And thru durating wheedled suns
Endure the stiffening arc aplomb
A land of sand and whirring fans
Of hurricaned and paddied lands
And scents of burning wood, steamy bush,
Untold flowers and unnameable fruits
Which grow around trees of mystery
Amid ramshackle huts embraced by sea.
