Visiting Noel Coward’s house, Jamaica, 1988
It appeared as if someone had just left
Racked dishes to air-dry, panes in a cracked
Window rattling above the dusty sink
What’s to see not the view but derelict
Kitchen gardens where in red soil he raised
Pimento, false thyme, and ginger, pollens
Blowing in, his last long-time friend absent
Their home willed to the state, then to decay
Your viewfinder catching me near a drop
To coaxing waves, a sultry thousand feet
I angled my shoulders against, marine
Flash of heat almost felling me, a lost
Path winding to the beach, like us discreet
The surf’s roaring white noise a thoughtless tease.
— from Juniper Volume 5, Issue 2