After I'd gone he woke to loud crashes through the railings. The windows had no glass. Swift clean hacks then long whistling falls. Round leafy landings like heads in a basket from a high execution. Bird had an army of shirtless men cleaving the coconuts from his palm trees.
He pulled on shorts and joined them. That would be the way of him. Even in a West Indian swelter he was most satisfied at useful enterprise. What else was there for him to do after I'd gone.
Photograph by Margaret O'hare. Fine Art Imaging