HEWANORRA

The moon, at most a shudder or two away. The sky, bivouaked and cloudy, is within twin sloops of a bay. The lagoon opens, spars with the greater ocean by island hopping, green azure blue, as the wind steps before an open sea. The great ridge of the mountain lies obscured by rain; jasmine, frequent colour and plantations with cocoa, soursop, and cinnamon. Arawaks, Pelee, Carriacoi, Anegada, Josephine of the Creoles, let Admiral Rodney atone Lord Byng. And my Patois beauty, breath laced Oleander sweet - take the hemming from your dress then come sit down with me.  [8] 

 

THE INTRUDER

The colouring of spacious flowers rove delicious to the eye. The road above the harbour fickle, carousing in its tendency to pull too gray by sky enamelled water. The tropical foliage, still and languorous, to my touch. Each particle of sunlight dangling as if hoisted from a perfumed ledge. Newly mown grass in streaks, browns serpent-like across the path. Low erogenous puffs of dust are swathed by passing feet. Near by, bushes wear the foliage of streaked mud as a mantle might cottonwool at Christmas. Life in such climes is built on connotations rather than pure innuendoes of purpose. The southern sky, the heat above the sea allude to this. This triumphant trilogy embossed upon volcanic slate, more crumpled paper than firm land. Gravesides lying in twilight nakedness. The scion moon in her damaged vestry between acolyte clouds. Hamlets resembling clotted blood, nicks across an earmarked horizon. The poor, wavering to transfixed in their hotly owned sun; the one commodity they rightly possess. The outpouring sea, loosing herself in bridged inlets, countless points that nudge the land in acknowledged supremacy. The irrelevance of time, inbreeding of pale intruder.  [9] 

 

DINNER AT EIGHT

At times, I thought of swizzling white rum in the tropics (not as a vocation), dropping into the club for a round of tennis before dinner at eight or a quiet set of darts before retiring. I had grown accustomed to my new routine (at least vicariously). In the best Somerset Maugham tradition I would dress for dinner, decline to be patronizing, avoid the potential slur if crisp linen did not appear regularly on my bed or table. I still found time to stop for breakfast coffee, take a moment from regimen to fondle fresh, wet flowers, look over the balcony at the blueness of the bay. The metaphysical qualities that come into play erode such morning somnambulations. The heat depreciated any 

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