The moon slides peeling the orange sun.
Seaward seagulls sign a truce of silence,
But cricket has not read the script
And bowls a babble to bats leaving crease
Running out for the night,
Frog, prince of the slime and puffed up like a
Pharisee notes the pitch, pulls no bull,
Hops and tosses a beamer in bass.
The beach buttons up its khaki suit
And sands the galvanize sea smooth,
Save for lover's slaps upon rocky heads;
The lighthouse stands as proud as a phallus-
To ships a friendly flasher,
To buoys a phosphorous professor,
A blast from a frigate is an unwelcome
Guest and shells rinse perforated ear-drums
In ditchwater discharged from passing boats,
From port an arrow-head bow cuts through a
Sheet of glass like a diamond while phantoms dance
The deck and ghost the deep in shadow,
Night, black as a molly unfolds its gown
Touching pinheads of light peeping
Through canopy in the horizon,
Coconut trees inhale the breath of sea
Through thin vein fingers and bend their backs like
A snooker player about to dump the green.
I, in my back porch, scan the scene,
Put the evening chores on hold, frantically
Took some film and camera, and telescope-
Stepped outside and gazed, I, too hypnotized,
Beneath the magic carpet caught the night.