Frangipani

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, pulls

through silk-dark rivers, frangipani petals.