Sign up to our newsletter
The sea lays big glass hands on the sand,spreading its fingers out as if newto the shore. It can’t quite believe in it.It wants to hold on before the glass breaks.
Who will bring me the hush of a feather?“I,” screeched the Barn Owl. “Whatever the weather.”
A plant called loveA plant called hate
I grew them both in my garden.The plant called love was hard work.
We don' have a Springtime like some folkWho live in dem colder place,but we have a time when de soft rain come,an' tease open de seedcaseo' de poincianna and de trumpet tree,
Furrows unfurl,Carved by the plough – Curl, fold, fall back:The skin peels away.
We turn our faces up and jiggle thirty toes,Morse-coding longing with our restless beat.When will it come?Shepherds on the first Nativity, we scan the skiesand huddle,
This morning I've got too much energymuch too much for geography
I'm in a high moodso class don't think me crudebut you can stuff latitude and longitude
Song-bird shut dem mout' an lissen,Church bell don't bother to ring,All de little stream keep quietWhen mi Granny sing.
My magic eye sees the sticky beak of a baby chickbefore the eggshell has broken.
It can catch the sun as it squintsand the stars as they wink at me.
Aren’t you cold and won’t you freeze,With branches bare, you winter trees?You’ve thrown away your summer shift,Your autumn gold has come adrift.