Up from Africa they come, high-stepping
the painted ladies, dancing and jigging,
tumbling by breezes about discovered air
and basking for lovers on spikes of mauve.

She'd seen them on days of ubiquitous,
stone-lacquering gold: days of salvage,
days when her hand was held in trust,
when the world was sapid and without end.

Their progress her wish, their falling through life
an unfailing benediction. And now
has come this day - when much to her surprise
the world heaves down with a mighty press

upon her: sirens strafe the air, for her,
and death descends through a ring of stranger's faces.

Gravely pacing
steals the nightman:
up from the well:
oil-black water
rising like skirts:
his fearful eyes:
he holds moist coal.

Then painted ladies filled her whitening sky
like coloured kisses, likes smiles on the wing,
discharging in air in her final minutes:
basking for lovers in a field of light.