Canal-Side

Behind the wide rock-bastioned strand,

Where inky waves on moon-white sand

Beat out their timeless harmony,

The owl’s flight

In dead of night

A pearl inlaid on ebony;

‘Mid the canebrake leaves, pricked as thistles,

Night-heron stalks and potoo whistles

And something makes your neck-hairs bristle

That jars the nocturne melody.

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Stilt-shod village, canal-side lot,

Under zinc-sheets, air thick and hot,

Table claps with another tot,

And fever seeks its remedy.

In paddy field the crickets sing,

A chilling gust makes lanterns swing

And Omen flits on scale’d wing

As bottles drain to clarity.

Swift with sinews and hoarse with rust,

With sweated groan and rum-willed thrust,

So taunted and red-seething lust

Shall fill a backdam sepulchre.

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©M.G Warenycia 2017