Shared the poem, BRONTE and PLEASE SOUND HORN. 

Which led to the response, “we saw it all and we could ‘smell’ your poetry, especially the ‘attack on the senses” that is India, and the blinding, peaking ocean that rolls into Bronte. 

PLEASE SOUND HORN, SOUND HORN OK:

Beneath a buttermilk sun

the Krishna-blue dominance of myth and story

line the motorway

we putt, push, poke

past a polluted picturebook

beneath boastful billboards

beside the hooked elbow

of a thousand SIM-faithfuls

a thousand hot ears

a thousand million trillion mobile prayers

are sent skyward

while a grubby Ganesh sits plump and plastic 

on a pock-marked stone

while Shiva is still dancing, unmoved 

ten feet away, in an ancient temple

while someone scrapes his scooter to a stop with his sandal

while someone scuttles leg-less on a skateboard

between this rick-whallah and a sari’s gilt-edged hem

while she adjusts her laptop strap in the haze

and a millionare’s driver peels his eyes from her

to press a pedal

–skye loneragan