Ark
by Aoife Mannix
Apple seeds from a shipwreck,
tiny freedoms planted in a Caribbean sea,
the sugar sun a broken chain.
Bowls pour music through hushed waters,
umbrellas chime in the torrential downpour.
The relief of a cool breeze,
the dreams of a stowaway.
Take refuge in the salt maker,
the sweep of open ocean.
The albatross flies around your neck
as the sails spin tales of hungry rocks.
We huddle on the deck,
home soaked, wind bitten, half drowned.
The doves in our pockets sing of drinking water,
rainbow peace, a single twig of green.
The waves wash words from our mouths.
On the shores of no language,
we search in the debris for bubble memories,
buried treasure, the sound of a gong.
The comfort of deep belonging,
here where land borders dissolve
and we smell the signs of magic,
other ways of growing.
