sarongs

sarong sling

sarong sling on the beach tattoos from the wrist draped around a shoulder silk enough for a kite against the sky...calm breeze blows ribbon frays silky wing fluttering the feathery palm tree menagerie of birds - no cat except half-a-tail snoozing on the tin roof of The Beach Shack - yawning yoga hot noon Madam Sangria glasses and sun-wrinkles polishes a silver tray, flashes the napping parrots, dazzles eyes inhaling sea bubbles wets lips and the golden nectar beads rolling the icy glass of a nice cold beer soon reflect sarong tattoos draping the painted haiku of shells quietly reading stones at the bar.



if the dress

The busy tailor, and the hardworking seamstress, too hot for May, whispers ‘…hear your woman is wearing her sarong? say they saw her dance flamenco in the square, say she was a diamond kite in the night sky too…seen your woman rough diamond the clouds?…say she laughs in the streets every day a painting – and say it’s scandalous; there were photographs, flash photographs..’

The tailor looks up and smiles, ‘I hear my woman is wearing her sarong like a kite, dancing at the beach in the moonlight while I am working on the ribbons and frays’ and the seamstress blushes by the window embroidering the sash with petals, ‘yes…yes…I’m listening out for her too…’ laying her template on the cloth, no straight lines to cut - ‘if the dress’ she said, the afternoon she wore her sarong to the beach.



Dreamer’s tin of Graffiti Special

“You are a Dreamer!” she says
slightly exasperated to say the very least
the popped Champagne cork
the souvenir magnum smoking the sarong
so I simply take a ladder to the horizon line
lean it against the sky
climb each rung as high as I can
take out my tin of Graffiti Special
write ‘I LOVE YOU’ in huge
rounded letters on the blue
slide down the ladder
becoming a canoe and paddle
my heart out heading for the sarong
now a haiku of shells quietly reading
and if a cloud goes by and the sarong
becomes a Japanese scarf on the washing line
it may be of interest to note a bird in a haiku
calls just before I open the Champagne.


Daisy,

The other day, a complete stranger
ran up to me and said, ‘Let’s
get married! Let’s get married!
and hopped on to my tandem.
Naturally I replied, ‘Miss,
we’ve only just met. Please -
remove yourself from my bicycle,
that seat is reserved for Daisy.”
Mercifully, she obliged and wandered off,
just before Daisy appeared
carrying a shopping bag for her dad,
“Alright Ducks?” she said, “I’m knackered”
and placed her belongings into the basket,
hopped on board, buffed the chrome with her hanky,
and looked just fine, “You take it easy, my love,
I’m as fit as a fiddle to peddle the metal.
You freewheel a starfish.” and peddled off,
hard up the hill; easy-sailing all the way home.”




Wood Stacks


Wood stacks along the beaches for St John,
for luck, for the summer months to come,
for little boats fishing lines home – families
build fire beacons on their patch of turf,
filter the sand, wriggle toes in surf,
and gather, eat together, throw the dog a bone,
sun-kiss tomatoes in the first rays of summer.

Sunset is falling a shawl around shoulders
in a peachy pink blaze when we need golden
wands of warmth. Let it be tassels, frays,
knots in big soft dots swirling on a sky’s silky stretch.
Let it be wrapped in dusk’s sweet breath. Darkness.

Strike a match; tinder kindling ignites tongues
as they burn a fallen tree - roots and juice
of hardwood fizz, eyes of pine pop to ash.
A scent, a last glance in oils - Midnight,
Madrugada - we jump the fires
to find the open arms of friends
and the flames warming the embers of a distant hug.
Never-ending hellos farewells lots of love.

Madrugada, Midnight to morning, couples walk
the hot coals, volcanoes dream of the last time
they were floating candles, each island
alight as fire-circles sparking,
and it seems all a display for the stars
before bedtime, when fireworks bouquet the sky.



The Shawl

I talked about needlepoint with a man from Kashmir.
Embroidering by hand leaves thread behind,
knots, looping pictures of browned fingers
busy through the Monsoon of June.
He told me he would make one for you
and send it charmed: for your shoulders, birds;
and for your arms, branches of Almond and Marigold.
So you will never feel the weight of it,
for the chill of the night or an aching heart,
warming pink falling petals confetti
to a delicate silver clasp,
fashioned by an old hand,
carved in the flowers of Royalty;
and imagined in the breeze, a butterfly ring,
fraying tassels trailing the back of your chair;
a fluttering around your shoulders before it gets there.