There’s a land long long time locked away, behind the keyhole, Mandalay.
Peasants in the fields time slowing ticking, planting their rice making slim pickings.
The landscape stretches on and on, the monks’ flowing robes, the roosters at dawn.
Everything grows every vegetable every fruit, music from the earth, Thieving Magpie, Magic Flute.
Fields of Scotch Bonnet, Indian Red, magic lemon that numbs the mouth, nondescript things that go off in the head.
No room in the cupboard to describe it all: ginger, jujube , jasmine, the creeping sprawl.
Magnolias, primulas, tea leaves & teak, minute into hour, day into week.
Slow goes the river thru the Irrawaddy plain, nothing really matters, what was will be again.