Author: Pamela O'Brien
We dine on roasted chestnuts
and peaches that drip succulent mangoe juice,
as the suns fall
and the shooting stars fly upwards
into the vastness of black space.
Selected branches crackle in the fires
that send columns of smoke
to where it is swallowed by cold air.
Images and shadows of women appear.
The trees have been woven
with fine gold and silver wires.
I sit, crouched, huddled,
near the eroded beach rocks.
The moon is an inch over the horizon.
The far waves are rising.
I watch the ripples of water weave colours
from the reflectios of white light
cast by the bluish moon.
Fire and water, please me, tease me,
make me forget.
I bury my troubles in the warm earth
that runs through my hands like clay.
A northern wind picks up and
blows my hair across the ocean...far away.
The strands touch the planets.
The rising tides welcome me.
No words come
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