In the Shade of the Coko Tree


The light is beautiful this morning.

It pours in through all four sides of the ancient building

And illuminates a sitting figure.

Silent, still and carved of stone.

The eyes are downcast and free from trouble.


I walk clockwise through stone hallways,

Passing through patches of warm light and cool shade.


I walk out into the sunlight. It is 11am.

It is hot, almost 35 degrees.

There is a bird high in the Coko tree.

I see a nest and hear some chicks.

A wonderful place for a bird to nest,

In the temple garden in the canopy of the Coko tree.


The birds with the largest eyes sing first.

The light reflects in their eyes, in orbs of shining water

And a spectrum of light spills into the world.




I love his giant white hands.

The outlines of his fingernails and joints in terracotta

Like the colour of the robe he wears.

His lips are as black as his eyebrows.

Long, arched and perfectly symmetrical.

Dried leaves rest in vases underneath his feet.

One hand lies in his lap, palm facing the ceiling.

The other palm faces down and rests upon his knee,

Fingers pointed at the stone slab ground.

His pupils are gigantic, assuming all the space of his drooping eyes.

They are black holes.


Gazing up I see a four corner domed ceiling with a pattern of circles.

What remains is that which has not yet been pecked by time.

He still sees with eyes half imagining, half remembering.

He is the shell of a bird, a delicate skeleton, a body of abandoned flesh.

He once had the largest eyes in the world.