End-rain . . .
Ebb tide comes from famished deluge
receding fast on clumsy, wet feet
flirting with vagrant soils.

Flung across these territories,
haggard fishing nets of grandfathers
hanging on masts of bamboo,
struck by thunder
and kissed by ribs of lightning.

Wraiths are common images
of the things of this
season,
when cruel laughters come from the
borders of our village.