Shore leave

by tfawcus

A still night, a quiet night,

with humid, listless air,
Frangipani fragrance,
moonlight's wanton stare.

Lazy fans swing slowly,
lifting up my prayer,
but God alone knows where.

A one-eyed beggar's squatting
on the fraying copra matting
near a broken rattan chair.

A cradled sampan's rocking,
its painted eyes are mocking,
and it's knocking,
like a toothless harbour whore,
kelp and mango slopping
at the restless, upright oar,

and sailors come ashore
to sample fruits like these,
exquisitely diseased.

The magenta mangosteen,
a short-lived tropic queen,
leather skinned but sweet within,
white-pulped flesh sucked from the stone,
juices dripping, putrid brown
to stain and mock the bridal gown

and deities forgotten
mid detritus that's rotting
upon the harbour shore,

and here the urchin children play,
whose searching eyes
alight today
upon an amputated doll,
a broken, pink-cheeked, plastic moll
with innocence surprised,
and arms outstretched
to flail the heavy-scented air
that's lifting up my moonlit prayer
to God alone knows where.

God alone knows where.

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Poem of the Month contest entry