MEKONG

It was the colour of the earth —

Clay to be specific —

Not at all like the rivers of home

On their run down to the Pacific —

Except when they’re in horrid flood

And spoiled with cruelty and mud.

On the Thai side was Gotoma,

Statuesque, all gold and ethereal.

Across in Laos was another world —

Sky-scraping palaces of the material.

A shard of green wilderness

Splintered out of Myanmar,

As if the land itself sought to escape

But was blocked, unable to get too far.

From the embankment on Thailand’s shore,

I watched the long tail boats propel,

While I thought of days of purple haze and fiery hell,

When this dragon, this mother water, was poisoned by war.

THE END OF SCHOOL

Was it really fifty-two years ago?

It was a morning so balmy

That we dressed for endless summer.

In our warmth, we celebrated like a conquering army.

The future we foresaw was a jolly jumble —

One part projections out of a bleary past,

One part prophecies inspired by hope —

A vision that was only a rough forecast.

That distant day was over and gone

Well before we had time to think

About the betrayals and failures

Lurking behind the next blink.

For a moment we were young and beautiful

And beyond the reach of ugly blame

For mistakes awaiting us in a broken world.

It was later that we learned to look back in shame.