The Wayside Bamboo

At a river bank

By a road-side

Grew a Bamboo bush

The Canes had diverse holes

Pecked by the fowl

And gnawed by insects, worms.

When gentle blew the breeze

The canes swayed with grace

And the notes sweet, pleasant

When it blew violent

Hideous were the steps

And the wails that froze breast

Diverse were the uses

The passing wayfarers

Made of the bush

* * * *

It was a sunset time

When down the road came

A dusky, charming lad

His face a trifle sad

As his eyes beheld

The bush, with joy he swelled

He searched among the canes

Ah, found it, a virgin

He took it, carved holes

And filled it up with

The honey of his lips

Of the nectarine notes

I cannot tell you folks !

You may hear it yourself

For, across the river

He plays his notes, ever

Silent, down the river

Come and you shall hear

The sweet strains he wafts through

The low wayside bamboo

T.C. I : some time on or before Sept. 1985.