courtesy of Andrew Vincent Photography

Shared the poem, BRONTE and PLEASE SOUND HORN. 

Which led to the response, “we saw it all and we could ‘smell’ your poetry, especially the ‘attack on the senses” that is India, and the blinding, peaking ocean that rolls into Bronte. 

Beneath a buttermilk sun
the Krishna-blue dominance of myth and story
line the motorway
we putt, push, poke
past a polluted picturebook
beneath boastful billboards
beside the hooked elbow
of a thousand SIM-faithfuls
a thousand hot ears
a thousand million trillion mobile prayers
are sent skyward
while a grubby Ganesh sits plump and plastic 
on a pock-marked stone
while Shiva is still dancing, unmoved 
ten feet away, in an ancient temple
while someone scrapes his scooter to a stop with his sandal
while someone scuttles leg-less on a skateboard
between this rick-whallah and a sari’s gilt-edged hem
while she adjusts her laptop strap in the haze
and a millionare’s driver peels his eyes from her
to press a pedal
–skye loneragan