These are the thorny stems of a bougainvillea that formerly grew in the front garden. I helped dad cut it down last week, finally bringing an end to an era of treading on its barbs. On those occasions, it would be a fine morning, like today, and the thorns would catch my soft feet unaware, sometimes burying themselves down to the stem. The cold dew, the fresh morning air, the first warm rays of the sun and the pain shooting up my ankle were all parts of the same beast. Why did that evil thing grow there for so long? What evil person planted it there? No one had any answers. it just grew.
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The Shearwater
Standing in waist deep water that has been blown concrete-smooth by the westerly wind, I look out at the horizon where I see the white tails of waves. Behind me, a storm is building. The sky is a swollen purple with lashings of rain coming down inland. The beach houses stand guard on the dunes - solemn and still. Out at sea, a single shearwater moves parallel to the horizon, searching for fish in the dark green water, drilling down with its black eye. I watch its feathered body move with the wind and the salt spray. It is a prisoner to this death-defying dance. One with the cold air, the salt, the water and the coarse sand, its brittle beak snaps and cries, its black eyes are still, and its bones are lighter than the air it floats in.
By Rolled Oats4 years ago in Poets
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