Island poems: The arrival
A new series using less words. Because sometimes poems just. say. more.
hot in every corner -
the sea, clear as glass
and the sky singing blue in an ever-stretch of newness -
took us in
like lost skylarks.
And were we ready
To emerge from a sleep above the water?
Sippy cups and picture books in our hands
Unlike the darkest echoes of others, beached, frail, bone-thin
Barely alive from 30 dead days at sea.
I look for bitterness in his face:
the driver of the 80's Ford Cortina -
all smiles, wide-open windows and reggae tunes.
He takes the coast road
(not the low lane cut through thick swishy fields of cane)
to the rambling yellow house
whose white louvre doors open out like wings.
Now, lumbering in the dark,
We are the foreign fruits
Among mangoes, banana leaves thick as blankets.
Outside, the high-octave whistle of - frogs? -
Surrounds us like a wall.
This is where we'll stay.