Maranti trees shelter green slopes
in the Pacific Rim of Sabah.
This lofty estate is my terrestrial zenith
where I survey these woody punctuations
as they take aim at megastars.
This is where I smell the Melati in Spring,
where I survey starry night frolics
with contemplations of thoughts turned past.
Above the tall trees a dim sallow moon contours
ominous dark clouds forward a fast-moving storm.
As clouds begin to stir and thunder starts to growl
raindrop trysts fall quickly to the ground
normally kept dry by lush, green leaves.
A dual renewal will soon take place with new leaves
replacing old ones, and village children replacing me.
These are the last days of my expat country, where coteries of Premen–
rough, unhewned silhouettes of society, roamed these hills
preying on the good luck of others.
Political goals were as pointless law scrolls as men sang
to their own runic-like rhymes.
But now they are gone as dust motes in the dark of night
and all that’s left are these magnificent trees, these hills and
these beautiful children.
And I stand looking down as the rain moves away
laundering the hills and the Danum Valley with nature’s renewal.