Gorgeous afternoon sun
showers violet, flame and white
flowers on upturned camera lens.
Catch a temple on the run
from rushing cloud,
trees see
and are tense.
Flies hover over
olive green sugarcane juice,
stray cattle fight,
mongrels are in retreat,
garbage fumes in summer heat.
Candy shops have aired
patch work sunshades,
fragile, they billow in gathering wind,
respite from stifling cares.
Tourists drive by,
but no one here
goes anywhere.
Up the road it will be cold,
so they have been told,
therapeutic rain for prickly heat,
and then even numbing snow.
And so,
lives go on in summer sweat,
shirt collars are smelly and wet.
Buses come and buses go,
meaningless bargains
perpetually struck
with tourists they will never befriend.
For a hundred years,
this has been the trend.
Beneath the bridge,
the river flows
fast and noisy,
and promises the hills,
a battle of wills.
