Each wave would mean a great journey.
Each day my lungs vocalised a genius is born.
The moon was releasing silver dreams for prosperity.
By the sea one morning I sang out my many names.
I heard everything there was to know about birds
and without being anxious, saw wings the same
shape as your arms. Then I stayed on to understand
why the world does not return what I accidentally
let loose from my hair. Windows that often
show a child drawing a tree of hope.
Sometimes flight is depicted as a yellow house.
At times with nothing left in my need to see,
I can recognize the rain’s ability to discolour
soil and grow the same perfume as your body.
From 100 Love Poems (Earl of Seacliff, 2005)
© John Pule
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