Buluma In The Morning


As day begins, the Artist renders dawn,
Bringing daylight to shade as twilight yields.
With swift hand, he captures the spectral light,
To paint a misted veil upon the morn.

How still he paints that pearled morning air,
That drapes his dawn of apricot and pink.
By deft brushwork he portrays the mangroves,
With warm and fragrant breaths of air respiring.

His art evokes the scent of village fires,
Curling wood smoke I taste upon my lips,
The ship's steel, cool and damp beneath my hands,
The rust-flecked decks made wet by morning's dew.

His labour brings the clearer hues of day,
To paint a looming sky that threatens rain.
A boat wreathed in smoke putters from the shore,
Towing mahogany, that glistens bronze.

Naked sailors swim about the giant trees,
To bind their girth with cargo slings for loading.
The hatchmen make ready the derricks’ hooks,
And hoist the logs, cascading from the sea.

But gilded bronze in the ageing timber's marks,
Makes me a witness, wise to his treasure's theft.
The Artist's day had dawned in perfect bliss,
Yet now I stand complicit, defiled by this day’s deed.
Location: Buluma, New Britain

Comments

Inquisitive Eastender said…
Naked sailors binding their girth.....oooh er
07/08/2024, 12:21
Simon Beechinor said…
Was it Shakespeare or Frankie Howerd who said 'Titter ye not'?
07/08/2024, 12:49
Anonymous said…
T'was thy bard, Frankie Howard: Yay, yay, thrice yay 😄
09/08/2024, 19:05
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Portrait of a strangely-dressed man

Listen to: Portrait of a strangely-dressed man The range of jade-green peaks unfolded before me Towards a horizon shrouded by a curtain of haze. The mist caught the morning sun in a fleeting rainbow, To gild the stone village homes in the valley below. He emerged from the bush, shifting uncomfortably From one foot to another, brushing off some grass, Tugging at his cheap, unfamiliar polyester suit, Smoothing wrinkles, giving the lie to his anxiety. Beneath his straight dark hair, fear and uncertainty Clouded his pale, angular face. I greeted him, smiling; He bowed, uncomprehending and hesitant, incongruous In his dark suit, days-old white shirt and narrow black tie. He made a futile effort to clean his plastic ‘city’ shoes, Keeping his black briefcase beside him, like a child’s toy, Expectant, as if hoping to bag a seat on a crowded train. We stood staring at one another, neither posing a threat. I pointed to the sea and the mainland’s far distant hills, He smiled in guilt and waved a
Read more

A Guardian of Empire

Image
Listen to: A Guardian of Empire We must go to school somewhere, and mine was an idyllic island, of unbounded childhood joy. A bulwark of English tradition amidst the social upheaval, the anarchy perhaps, of the ‘60s, with a progressive outlook, if one was of the Edwardian era, for it was a training ground for the Guardians of Empire. And I loved it. I was steeped in its timeless values:  of fair discipline,  academic excellence, and sporting prowess. Our gaggle of ancient and venerated teachers, all veterans of wars past, of Ypres and the Somme,  Normandy and the Yangtze Kiang, tried to shape my impressionable mind. They did better than my parents to foster my intellectual curiosity, my moral compass and a lifelong love  of literature, mathematics and science. They referred to me,  affectionately, I think, as ‘The Admiral.’ And I loved them. My memories resound with the boisterous laughter and chatter of young boys. We were constantly busy in a kaleidoscope of lessons,  games of cricke
Read more

Portrait of a Shipowner

Listen to: Portrait of a Shipowner The old Greek added sugar to his cup and stirred, and tapped his spoon against the rim; his keen mind turning like the Cuban coffee that purled, fragrant, dark and rich before him. He'd lunched with English merchants who despised 'the Pleb from Chios', yet winced as he carved fine slices from the rump of their fleets, and devoured their post-war prosperity. He mused the English must be deluded, and sipped, in contemplation, from his cup. He pulled his last Karelia from the pack, thumbed his lighter, drew deeply and sighed. Their folly was their reliance on cargo to haul from port to port and ballast back; But the Greek used cargo to pay down loans, buy ships cheaply and sell them on the rise. They knew little of nothing, thought the Greek. He drained his cup and pushed his filter hard into the ashtray. He pitied the English, adrift like flotsam on an ebbing tide.
Read more