ROGER VICKERY
LAST OF THE WHITE RAJAHS
The late evening sky in Kuching sends out a light of gentle 3D.
Pale red flowers flow by the armadillo bungalows.
Lemons seem ethereal.
I run my fingers in the river; a delicious, barely boiling stew of high-prowed, silver eels, ferrying the army back and forth
from Brooke's old fort.
By the mosque I catch the snake charmer's flute and find myself drifting north,
toward the library.
I detour by the last Rajah's foundry.
The family name is still there;
greenish bronze plaque applauds the voluntary abandonment.
In the sussex cosjness of the shelves I reach out for Maugham,
seeking the Sarawak tales
and admit, as I touch the calfskin, - yes, dammjt, . . still with Kipling...
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