His eyes were made green in the war that built the Burma Road, littering dead along its verges -- discarded picnic tins. The road has also decomposed into the jungle's root and rains somewhere north across the river while here he has imposed the order of his campaign -- a house, hoed vegetables, petals English as Michaelmas, their beds besieged in jungle terrain. Unslinging packs, we rest among his Western flowers. Our eyes acknowledge, but don't question, his within this citadel. |