Early jacaranda colours the scented air,
wrought-iron benches massage our jet-lag
in a round village square centred
on a bunting-bedecked bandstand.
Lakewards, a man above a shop strikes
hammer blows to the façade below his feet;
its bright brick and stucco crumble. Roadwards,
work-gangs sweat to inch the grey innards
of a foetus hotel higher. Southwards,
the silver water that lures us ageing gringos
recedes to ease the thirst of Megalopolis,
while invasive hyacinth stakes out more metres
for its final resting place.