Each velvet-soft frangipani memory
falls on a bank then washes away
with the tides into the light of the sea
hovering between a darkness and a day.
An old woman, with gnarled tree fingers
stoops to pick a handful for her apron
but waves flash one burst of gold and silver
snatch them in and then forever darken.
A sparrow pecks at mud for unseen insects
and calls the flock and cocks its head and waits
and rushing wings do come out and connect
but all the same find nothing, it’s too late.
The last ferry, with a blast on its horn, pullsthrough silk-dark rivers, frangipani petals.