The old brown volcano with a ragged
Frieze of larch and pine, puffs smoke
Like an old man in a rocking chair
Pulling quietly on his pipe.

Rain, wind, mist and snow
Competed all the winter long
To take their turn and now
The earth sprouts daffodils.

Pink moss phlox covers walls
In swathes of purple white and red.
The almond and the cherry trees
Look genuinely surprised

To be here, their softness
Like a heavy drug, smiling and
Waving like a see-through
Gauzy dress against an azure sky.

It's springtime at the school.
Teachers puff their daily rules.
Silence and debris gather in empty corners.
Whiteboards grubby with use

Stare blankly into space.
The TV on the wall, indifferent to abuse,
Guards its colors behind a grey face
And awaits some arbitrary choice.

Students groggy with sleep
Hurry reluctantly to class.
The cafeteria debates the desirability
Of fried or scrambled or half-boiled eggs

Bags of chicken parts in plastic bags
Defrost in the warm water tanks
Preparing to accept their daily
Punishment and fate.

Was that Thai I heard or was it
French? No it was Thai
Or maybe Malay or perhaps
Chinese or Japanese or English.

Was it? The confusion
Trembles on the lip and in the ear.
A thousand memories of distant homes
Come burgeoning in

The black barrack like buildings where
Signals invisibly tap at the airwaves
And fingers, slightly warm,
Slide across the glass to frame a world

So various, so bright across the globe
A noisy cacophonic babble
Of pixilated painted people
Of young men and women

Waiting for the hour
Waiting for the sun
Waiting for their turn
Waiting for their world

As cherry blossoms flirt seductively
With the breeze before they fall.
And who knows, who knows, who knows
When the volcano blows?