Some peaks over here
are like the naïve mountains
in my picturebooks.
Is there something quite
sinuous and serpentine
about all hill towns?
What are our lives like
springing up in large nature?
Look at the ricefield.
History is here
being made and renewed
among the straw-ricks.
A flame-tree’s image
in sheer swimmingpool water
apes eternity.
Decling sun hues
water buffalo and ducks
without preference.
Midnight seized our train,
all the black hills rushing by
thick with unmoved leaves.
Back to a city
with cyclos, Uncle Ho and
lotus-root salad.
I sometimes wonder
amid such heat and fragrance
what voyagers learn.
Copyright © 1999 by Chris Wallace-Crabbe.
