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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 pierces me. 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 of vapour. 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. |