Pacific Island Idyll. Then.
Gasping in green ocean, jerking the hips,
Kicking the heavy legs, catching a wave’s lift,
Cresting a water rainbow, tumbling in foam.
Then he is floating, still, transformed, in a mirror lagoon.
He wades ashore, startling fish and crabs
Who have never seen human feet before.
He wobbles on sloping sand, under stretching coconut palms.
He turns, squint into the setting sun and sees
Pieces of smashed boat bobbing in the lagoon.
He laughs. He is here, and he will stay awhile.
Pacific Island Idyll. Now.
You return from the island holiday
With souvenirs, two new words.
You won’t eat your winter stew
Until you transform it by moving chunks
Of soggy kumera and carrot into a tall glass.
“Grandma, pour stew juice in. Now.”
Then you smear kumera round the rim.
“Don’t play with your dinner,” says Grumpy Grandma.
Your lagoon eyes flash astonishment. Me? Play?
You hold up the full glass.
“Cocktail,” you say. ‘Cheers.’