Pale Rose Poem by ENOCH JOHN

yesterday, in Trinidad
the poinsettia blossomed

its green leaves transformed
into sweet pink of pale rose

on November's earth.

the sky beckons
as a sparsely powdered pie

that makes eating
some distant

dream.

It's good to dream, growing

a blade of grass into vast Steppes
with Cossacks riding in sweet rhythm,
like the fearsome horsemen of the Apocalypse, or

a tame lion of Port of Spain's
Emperor Valley Zoo, becoming

some fierce pride wandering
the Tanzanian wild,
or imagine

that packed
Roman amphitheatre where

the king of beasts mutilates
another victim

of

empire-
when
the Roman Spear of Legions

thrusted fear
and Nero's mad
laugh

scared
helmeted generals.

this was no dream
or even myth.