Our home was soft corners, diaphanous shadows, A ghost-home tamarind tree of dark midnights That used to shed many tiny leaves and bird-twigs, A well deep in darkness and shrieking night crickets, A wet coconut rope slithering on its stone rim.
The water shivered on its perked up surface At the dark touch of the dimpled metal pail. The pail got pulled up quickly spilling water To the banana which squealed with green joy. The thorny fence wound its way in the moonlight Quietly disappearing in the hillock without trace.