Remembering New Orleans, colours, the heat,
mules plodding sun-hatted flowers tucked behind twitching ears
as I hear our weather “snow to 300 metres”
Wairarapa – means water/sun place –
but it is windswept, isolate, a world away from sultry jazz,
strolling listening,eating sweet treat beignets,
a snowfall of sweetness.
Levees and light, oil flares –
us into arguments, discussions about life/water scarcity
the local environment- Mississippi too
I am remembering the oil search markers in the bayou
Heron swept,flight above oil flares
on the river.
I recall the disasters, Katrina, the Gulf.
New Orleans, a scintillating tidal-city
en-Gulf-fired, flooded
French-slave traded, Spanish-infiltrated
Andrew Jackson-liberated.
I miss the cobbled streets
latticed balconies, seeing swallows swift on warm nights
now I am abed, cold, in the Wairarapa.
it’s also windswept, isolate a world away from sultry jazz
stroitlling eating sweet-treat beignets a
vgjules50 