On a naked hill

Above a shamble of bone built huts,

She plays at chores

in a well-lit palace,

open to the dim world.

she moves about in there

rearranging her dark-polished furnishings

in patterns of arabesque logic.

Everyone below watches, looking up from

mud scrabbled ruts

into the bright vision of order.

“Oooh, coffee table tea party

on the veranda, my dear.

Now that’s the way to live!”