Salisbury, Rhodesia, 1960
‘The natives are L-A-Z-Y,’ she says,
barely pausing as she stirs
her Earl Grey.
The letters fall, like pebbles,
into a chasm,
waiting for impact.
Or for the plate of Huntley & Palmers
to be passed around.
A cricket ratchets up the afternoon
while meager figures
crouch above herbaceous borders,
hacking at something.
Jacaranda, frangipani, bougainvillea…
the garden is overwhelmed
by its inventory.
Back in the paneled hall,
the grandfather clock has been
counting down to the apocalypse
since 1895.
It can wait for another
decade or two.
Copyright © Alan Ireland | Year Posted 2025
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