By Vita Forest
Springing from the sandstone
Slicing into the water
The water cold and clear and shocking.
He pushes it behind him in great armfuls
Hears the pop and fizz of fish chanting in the shadows
The quiet burble of water filling his ears.
He erupts from the water
And she watches from the window
Sipping tea, spying.
Enjoying the water streaming off his shoulders
The flick of his head sending the hair off his face
The spout of water he spits from his mouth
Returning it to the harbour.
She watches as he strokes off towards the zoo
The spirals of steam stroking her face
Like his hands did
Not long ago.
His eyes at the level of the water
Now above, now below
Rising and dipping
Alternating clarity with blur.
Then he sees it
Spinning across the surface
A bobbing brown bulb
That fits in the palm of his hand.
He sweeps it before him
Bats it, flings it
A ball, a toy, a message in a bottle
Back on land
Scrambling over mossy rocks in bare feet
Cradling the bulb
Slick and shiny in his fingers
Until under a fall of scarlet crescents
he sees the dark soil.
Searching for a stick and
Digs, scrapes, turns up the earth
Pushes in the bulb
Finding it a home.
Not knowing what he has sown
A plant, a garden, a love, a tribe, a story
beneath the warm earth.