Lin, a Chinese friend giggled,
at my rather laboured, say, feeble,
quest for apt description,
pedestrian attempt at Cantonese,
the Chinese word for butterfly,
or dragon even hue rich moth,
just vanished down the throat,
of one so eager yet befuddled,
turning graceful egg shell noodles,
under blazing spit fire lanterns,
our laughter rose and fell,
amid the sotto voce banter,
now abundantly in full speed train.
Me, the ever strident woodland boffin,
immersed in esoteric marshland plant life,
the sort that rules the grand designs,
of avid green leaf activists.
Lin, the restless late teen nomad,
who had yet to sink deep roots,
often dwelt in backstreet fruit,
and flora stalls the stuff of folklore,
on occasions even flexing sylvan muscles,
from craggy skyline mountain tops.
Her flawless English honed through,
years of rough sea ferry ventures,
on holidays abroad in trendy sunspots,
at major meadow festivals where,
gaiety and buzz words sprout.
We keep in touch through text,
and pen as often as we can.
Meeting up is so much fun.
I hope one day my knowledge,
of those mystic eastern tongues,
will stray beyond the basics of,
some tawdry travel phrase book,
the one I’m prone to idly cart,
around the world but seldom use.
Enhanced vershion of earlier submission with edits
and corrections where appropriate.
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