From a hidden reach of a tropic river
whose mangroves undulate drab khaki
as thick-slicked oil on sluggish water
and flying foxes emerge at dusk
in squadrons of serrated segments,
I send greetings to the house
near Newlyn's snub-nosed fishing smacks,
the lilac bay's diaphanous face,
aquarelle of an old romance,
where herring gulls pursue their catch
in the keen slipstream of Atlantic cliffs
and seals appear at the mouths of caves,
frolicking like maidens given leave to dance.