A Death in the Blue Lagoon

A tea plantation in Ceylon,
Run by a wealthy magnate’s son,
Enveloped o’er by leaden cloud,
With mist a veiling, wispy shroud.

“Malayaga Tamilar”
The workers sourced from near and far,
Pushed far beyond their means to cope,
In slavery upon the slope.

In dreary sweat they’d harvest tea,
The strident boss their misery;
Enforcing bitter hours of toil,
Their fevered hands besmirched with soil.

He’d badger workers with such force,
His rasping voice becoming hoarse,
Provoking half the crew to tears,
The orders thrown like flying spears!

A ghost that lingered in the trees,
The faithful friend of birds and bees,
Espied this man’s pronounced disdain,
Insisting work progress in rain!

But also this man had a flaw,
And in the night slipped out the door,
Somnambulism as his muse,
Sleepwalking through the spectral hues.

Along the paths that skirt the farm,
With servants often in alarm,
To see their master roaming free,
Entranced by sleep — a mystery!

“A danger this, I’ll wager true,
If this is what he’s wont to do—
This random straying from his bed,
Oblivious! Lost in his head!”

…the words the maid spoke to the cook,
When out together they would look,
Upon their master’s reverie;
His dangerous proclivity.

Past the misted garden hedge,
Beyond the wall and stony ledge,
Around the house in hazy laps,
Tripping sometimes at the taps.

And then one night, the ghost was there—
Her vigil in the midnight air,
Distressed, irate with his abuse,
The workers and their sore misuse.

So in beguilement, down the hill,
Her acrimony deathly chill,
She led the farmer as he walked,
This haunting ghost his being stalked.

She led him to the blue lagoon,
Maintaining him within his swoon,
Ensuring he did not awake,
Progressing to the darksome lake.

He tripped and fell below the moon,
Enveloped by the dark lagoon,
His silent death her wry command,
His final pang — a flailing hand!

AD Lovkis, 16/08/2025