SARGASSO


Cool, week-old paiwari spiced with sugar-gum.
Their eyes are black and impenetrably bright.
It looks a place well-settled in good routines.



Alone, outside the evening light,
Alone with black arrows,
Who is that man, wrapped in black,
Squatting in twin-circles of dropped black pods,
Crouched like a crow, stirring a black pot
Sizzling on red ambers like a black cat spitting?
A chant of mourning comes from this figure of the night.
Why does no one approach him? Why so far removed?
Why will he never join the hum of life and light?
They shrug and smile like children who are happy:
"The poison-maker," they murmur, "he is the poison-maker."





 4



 Caiman Fever

 Cold wind creeping on the skin,
 A Shaking-ague deep in bone,
 All night in and out of sleep,
 Fitful skin-damp wakings every hour
 And a restless dream recurring:
 Huge caimans thrashing in the river
 Tails beating the water egg-froth white
 Eyes blazing as they struggle,
 Musky odour rising in the night.
 I smelled and feared the grappling beasts.



 Shivering in a misty river dawn
 I meet Majesta who minds this house,
 Ancient-slow but cooks a perfect pot.
 She gives a look and knows the whole thing true.