Two Pacific Island Idylls

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.’


3 thoughts on “Two Pacific Island Idylls

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