In wicker chairs with whiskeys in their paws
The ex-patriates sit. Less savage than it seems,
The sun, obedient of its natural laws,
Shines on their talk of tax-avoidance schemes.
Out on the lawn hibiscus-branches sway
As sun-birds, balanced on the flower-heads,
Peck through the petals, find an unnatural way
To get at what they want. Their hunger shreds
The flimsy scarlet of the flowers’ bloom
But does not, as the patient insects do,
Re-pay with pollination.
I presume
Somehow it all works out. The taxes too
