Mr. Horley hid his face, at first, among the bottles,
fifteen bottles all full, grew the nerve.
The white shoes signed the way back,
Mr. Horley hid his hands in the bag,
Fifteen chairs around
The room waited for some
Gently golden planets,
grew the staidness.
Mr. Horley put the white shoes on,
"Diamonds, bread, lillywhites"
asked to the granma
sat on the silver
turning globe, sliding grass
burnt on the large terrace
in a small fish pond,
grew the drone.
Mr. Horley didn't know, in sequence, the long story,
the story of fifteen days in New Zealand,
grew the understatement.
In those days, while the rain marched
past on the coast, a little blue boat
ran leftwards, grew the harvest home