In December, tea-scented drifts of hot air would hint of new moon flowers unfolding, the thought of which would carry me into the comforting arms of deep sleep; then as midnight approached, and when the large petaled corollas of these haunting flowers were fully extended, I would be further drawn by their soporific scent into my curiously familiar dreams. The Luanshya night pollinated these plate-sized trumpet flowers with moths and bats. By morning these fragile beauties were limp afterthoughts of her post-midnight magic. Whereupon she would gently press the residues of their lily and orange perfume into her pre-dawn wrists in a mood of quiet acquiescence and spent nights. Her night reveries were forced to bow down before the heated arrogance of yet another day to come.
Allan Taylor, author Luanshya musings