(for Mark & Gemma)
Female Frigates ride warm rising currents.
Soar over Pegasus in an
arrow of Ms against
Dour dulled-skies. Heads, beaks, bellies and breasts
Powdered white, turn
eyes. Give accent to black
Plumed frocks, and long forked-tails
that trail
Magnificent wings like kites in Guyana come
Easter-time.
And a Kiskadee freshens up
for her partner:
Bathing only in the best
pool, she swoops low,
Quick splash-tousle of
feathers, she swoops out,
Perches on the
greyish-brown back of a poolside
Chair, polishes her beak against
the hardened
Plastic until it gleams. Sends out a high-pitched
Screech like a
straight-tubed Saxophone
Fine-tuning itself for
practice at the Sea Wall
Bandstand.
Her pretty feet, hint of
waffle-brown, pad along
Terracotta brick-edge. Two glasses of coconut
Water, two straws, two
dainty hands and I know
She’s dreaming
bottles. High walls of painted
glass,
Vivid red, maybe. Like her
toe-nails. And swirls
Of gold, maybe. Like her hair. Just one of many
Reasons I adore Quincy
Magoo’s Haitian muse,
His beacon of bright. His revolution lover.
