Glimmering wavelets dance in mangrove forest gloom.
Flotillas of stone carved, fire hollowed canoes
deftly steered between botanical snorkels.
Masters of clay and wood
pay homage to alien atmosphere floaters.
No submarine canyon creature looks odd now.
Wind chimes fly like reaper taunting acrobats.
Never ending greens snake through shrubbery.
Bowls mirror peninsula curves.
At the nineteenth hole, androids blend all,
from watermelon, guava and strawberry,
to pineapple and passionfruit with a hint of mint.
The musicians are carbon-based life forms, mostly.
Placid Island can’t coax Helena
into venturing beyond high-rise sanctuaries?
Book cases are her best friends.
Moonrise is her walking hour.
Muggers frighten her less than a frantic cacophony,
of carefree children and day time traffic.
I’m told Helena’s uninterrupted stream of parcels,
stems from the quirkiest web cam shows
in the known universe.
Her long-term devotees know
she’s turned eighteen seven times now.
In the background,
Dragon Trees and Aloe Vera flourish
where the home cinema used to be.
Dwarf Azaleas fill the microwave void.
Helena’s rivals pretend to love inserting foreign objects,
for the benefit of strangers
with less imagination than plastic bags,
she plays muted drums in a panda suit.
Five star ratings accumulate like Autumn leaves.
Virtual bouquets undo hidden zippers.
Patrons glimpse nimble, elegant thighs,
hints of exquisite lace and angelic eyes.
When the money river turn to pools
the heart beat orchestra subsides.
Gentle spirits transfixed
by flower arranging and origami wizardry,
extol her virtues.
Ponytail Palms reach for Helena’s skylight.
Moss carpet decorates her toilet seat.
The shower curtains are fog drinking ivy.
Someone yearns for Mother Nature, with a twist.
Helena, tell me again how you effortlessly resist
the lure of Placid Island in the Autumn mist.