At dawn I tramp to clusters rich;
with carpets of spindles, slick
with dew. I twitch and flick
in piles and piles that stalk
like shadows, lengthening. Winds catch
peaks, twirl them up then set them down,
apart. Rains too – like so much else –
corrupt and spoil my rings
of fire, my emerald isles.
I sweep again.
Low status mine, under coolie hat;
no morning nod or welcome smile –
young eyes won’t see me, true.
Just gnarled and bowed – a ghostly
sight – my bamboo youth
I sweep some more.
Cluster: an Indonesian term for a secure housing estate.
(This was one of the poems for the third assignment of my creative writing course).
Categories: Just Poetry