Mara Peru Arali

Frangipanis my eyes found

And champacas I let be

All the memories of sampige

That lay unpicked beneath the tree

The smell is now as faint as when

A wish that never met the lips

Ebbs, and flows in a days gyre

But leaves a trace on fingertips

The red champa is floating still

In a pool of water, seldom gay

Its petals finding hard to fight

The obligatory decay.