is where flowers bloom at the wrong time of the year

i stop. break the soft stem of the red flowers hanging over the toll road fence. red looks good on grey. i used to drink the juice that would drip from the wound. now the cut is dry. my hand grey from the dust around the stem. i move on. see where the gondoks grow like gothic ruffles on the swamp. people say they drink the oxygen dry from the water. black. children fishing with thin bamboo rods and raffia lines in it, ankle deep. couples sit on motorbikes and watch the children, his hands around her waists. all the leaves though, are green. the deep green of save the rainforest posters. i look for a death metaphor, all i could use is the black trunks of the mangrove trees, but even they are surrounded by life. green moss, yellow butterflies so pretty you think you're just imagining them, purple springs of ivy around the poles propping up an ad for ideas for life panasonic TV sets. the closer i get to departure, the more i realised what i'm leaving behind: a place where life cheats death and keeps you company while you try to do the same.