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THE COMING OF THE RAIN STALLIONS
The Rain Stallions lurch
through the gullies of bright granite,
but their soft and terrible voices
are trapped among the mountains. The sky
is quiet out here and pale
as fine dust. She shifts her weight
and the heavy flounces of her skirt,
ivory blond, resettle and conform
once more to the shape of her damp thighs,
her shoes assuming a new pattern
on the dark stripes of the dhurrie rug.
She, rolling the yellow cigarettes,
and they, drawing the tinny bitterness
of the tobacco into their lungs to kill
the sweet pungency of their white-man's
clothing – the three of them are at home,
at least, with one another. The bamboo
sighs. The paddles of the fan
stir overhead. And breath after breath
the afternoon turns evening, fetching
a hectic blush of tangerine
to their languid, foreign pallor.
For them the artillery is hauled
to the frontier, for them
the last of the grand armadas
carries its flickering ensigns
over the steel blue curve of the ocean,
for them the polished torpedoes
nudge through sargassos of diplomacy,
and for them the war-cry is muttered
through properly stiffened lips.
As the sun hisses into the undergrowth,
the gentlemen lift their gin
and grunt, "The Queen!" Eastward,
the forgotten peaks are hidden
by the black wall of the monsoon.
   
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