turn and watch the mellow blue of this day's dawn,
as the flowers on the trellis bloom,
and last night's nymphets dangle one leg over the balcony rail
to allow the moonshine raindrops to trail
along their ravished thighs.
The broken drum kits serenade the remnants of their innocence
while the marijuana sings its stony song.
Sweet Rosetta is long gone with Yeats' fisherman,
and left behind are only petrol fumes,
to live and die and paint as the wind permits.
turn and watch the flames we can afford to light
before principles return.
This monsoon is your kindest apology for desertion.