THE ISLAND
Bobbing
atop the prow of our slender boat,
I
spy the shadow of a dark green island,
Ill-defined
smudge in the misty rain, the sky
Opaque
and filmy, snakeskin freshly shed.
Slicing
forward, our front beak is whipped
By
waves both sides, spray flying about, rude little explosions.
Drenched
fireman, shirt glued to my skin, wet bird,
Shivering,
I lick my lips, tasting salt.
My
flip-flops float in a shallow pool at the bottom.
One
of my companions bails out water. Serene,
He
must be an angel because he smiles at sharks.
They
patrol these waters, grinning at travelers like us,
Fretful,
riding wooden planks rattling to a rickety motor.
Beneath
us dark green water rushes, shadowy leviathan.
One
with the sea, the wind whips up a tempest,
Brows
of storm clouds glower, gray veils of rain.
Swiftly
landfall approaches, half-moon beach beckoning,
Welcome
pie. Solidly, our bow hits the shore,
Bulldozer
grinding into raspy grit…leaping off,
I
dig my toes into the sand, an ardent missionary.
Originally
published in The Sunday Times Magazine, Volume
117, Number 1 (August 7, 2016), page B2
 |
| Washington Island, Republic of Kiribati |
