New blog

SO IT FLOWS

Rivers run through central Funchal

Constrained by concrete,

Swollen with mountain rain,

Swollen with harbour water

At high tide.

When the flash flood is past

And the tide is low,

The rivers trickle between stones

And trash,

Ducks escaped from the Park

And a lone ibis.

This night I stare through glass

As I dine well,

Traditional Island food

But not for the dark shadows

Stepping from stone to stone

In the river below,

Hurling stones at a stray muscovy:

Their dinner is to hunt

And yet to kill.

When I leave

The muscovy is still,

Asleep on a rock:

The men, wet-legged,

Cold, gone hungry.

the mountains send little water

To meet the tide.

©Tony Morris 13 January 2009