
drifting downstream,
the prow points our way
to open sea.

drifting downstream,
the prow points our way
to open sea.

at mangrove’s edge:
a croc, mouth agape.
lazy hunter?

When setting sunlight warms
silvery tree trunks &
mangrove reeds,
and they alternate with
deep shadows,
I finally understand
the tiger’s camouflage.

clouds lift
to reveal jade hills:
Tah-Dahhhh!
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow. My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year. He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake. The woods are lovely, dark and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.