For Tessa and Tim
Under the dirty lid of a panama
he bit into the satsuma.
Juice squirted across his jowls,
trickled down the loose skin of his neck.
He watched me as he chomped.
'No good,' he said.
He spat a grot of pith into the soil.
He turned to his men by the light aircraft.
'Burn it. Burn it all.'
Soon, the islanders' groves were ablaze.
Mothers ran clutching their children into the sea.
Smoke followed in our slipstream as we rose.
He proffered an orange juice in a crystal stemmed glass.
'No thank you,' I said,
and turned to watch the sunrise.
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