Pelagic frogfish
In the sky,
Captured by a satellite.
Religious icons are
Baptised
In bathroom tiles.
Cumulonimbus heights
Before a storm
Transformed to toads
And turtledoves
High above
The dreams of love
I found in your words,
As comforting to me as
Waves on the coast,
The sound and scent
Of my homeland.
Have I learnt nothing,
For I yearned to return
To your love, but all
I find beachcombing
On the edge of the ocean,
My sand-swept existence,
Though frantically I search,
Are flotsam thoughts,
Are the rusting returns
Of briny whelks on the keel
Of a boat, a vessel battered
By strife and winds and surf,
Messageless bottles,
A raucousness of seagulls
Being seagulls,
Conches and shells
In the foams
Of the moment
Seem like conches and shells;
The waves resurface
Their childish driftwood gifts
Offered up at my feet,
How the mind plays tricks
On a desolate beach
To rekindle itself.
