HIDING FROM INVASION
Hiding from Invasion
Motor bikes roar to the gate,
men in green, Myanmar men
arrive masked and ready,
carrying machinery heavy and
light: weed-eaters, brooms, rakes.
Grass cutters to mow the lawn. Noisily
dinning the quiet neighbourhood
They spread grass scent raw, warm.
Sunday peace torn apart.
Mr Spooks will have none of it
Gone the observation deck
atop parked motor car.
Sun-snooze on best chair.
Gone.
Stretch on the damp grass.
Gone.
Roll in the dirty sand.
Gone
He seeks solace indoors.
He shuffles himself against papers,
keyboard and books on table.
Studying me his muted gaze says,
‘Don’t look, this is not me,
I am not here.’
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