Bohemia Village Voice

[From ‘Bohemian Bagatelle‘, published 1979 by the Bohemians]

 

INDIAN REVERIE

 

I gaze from my Verandah

On a still and tropic morn,

The garden shimmers in the heat,

An Indian day is born.

The HimalayanMountains,

Cold, forbidding, free,

Rule the far horizon

In silent Majesty.

The garden has great beauty,

Filled with exotic trees,

Hibiscus, bougainvillaea,

All the prospects please.

Beyond this riot of colour

Verdant bushes of tea

Stand regimented rank on rank

As far as the eye can see.

Frangipani blossoms lie

Like stars upon the grass,

Their heady perfume

Intoxicates my senses as I pass.

The sweeper in my garden

Toils hard, she seldom rests;

In the stifling heat of noon-day

Her baby suckles her puny breast.

My child in his cool cradle

Sleeps sound on bed of rags

Frets on the mango-shaded ground.

I know that in this country

Happy I’ll never be;

Whilst all around I see

So much about poverty.

Shadows grow long in the garden,

The sweeper’s task is done,

With crying child she wends

Her weary way home.

I long for England, Land of Hope,

No Glory here for me!

The tropic night falls swift and dark,

And ends my reverie.

 

Louise Stuart