A RAIN-WASHED TOWN BY THE SEA
The scrunch of the kitchen knife through the long stalks
of ginger lilies I cut for my mother
this leaf-moist morning. Their sharp scent
Way above the trumpet
tree, noisy with the gossip of birds,
improbably far, the silver stylus
of a jet chalks the arrow of my
ambition across immaculate blue.
Even as I gaze it dissolves in puff balls
From my school desk, carved
with the names of the lost, the heroes, I shall dream
on the cobalt sea.
By midday it will rain,
extravagantly, the gutters will gurgle with delight.
These memories define me. I keep them
against that morning when my eyes
no longer turn to greet the sun.