Primroses,
eternal, they are...

An oak made friends with
the swallows on crying skies...

You smell of scorched bushes,
and you thought of stars as poets...

This place is not Copenhagen,
but this is Manila...

Periwinkle skies, we've met again;
over my poetry-filled ancient garden...

Amongst your restless waters, I slumber.
Dripping June, petrichor, dark horizon...

Petals,
autumnal, spiralling...

Tired eyes amidst forlorn skies,
widowed, decried, severed are those ties...

Summer's tears and plastic cups,
daisy fields and apple pies...