By David Gill
They are rooted here. Their tenuous life,
haunted by ancestors , walks beneath these leaves.
Out of sight but always well in earshot
our neighbors weave the slow grass mats
of their dark- green unfathomable lives,
Whilst we in our dry, well furnished houses
(the protectorate served its servants well)
with house boys polishing the spacious acres,
Stare out across the smooth manorial lawns
and red platoons of cannas through the trees
to alien hills that shoulder us away.
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