Bougainvillea

The fiery bougainvillea cascades down

The whitewashed walls of luxury hotels

And on the roofs of plain adobe huts

Burns in splendour challenging the sun.

Festive trees are lit with brilliant hues

Reaching towards the dome of heaven's skies.

I have seen urns aglow with purple bracts

Set against the silence of the sea

In Puerta Vallarta and in Cozumel

And Cuernavaca, the flower of Mexico,

Spilling from tall trees in India

Or on a mansion's entryway arranged

In such a burst of brilliance no leaf was seen.

The eye enthralled in rapture strove to hold.

Those clouds of pink and gold and orange-red,

If all the world should die from man's abuse

I believe you, bougainvillea, would survive.