Water hyacinths go out to work
by June Nandy
I have to cleanse my water; a
brackish swamp it is, with
bay-muds at the bottom.
The low growing reeds
are the breeding-ground for geese;
at times, I self-ignite—a sprite.
I know, it is just the
will o’ wisp— marshy gas
decomposed, within my wet-land.
Alligators are not an element of surprise
devouring anything smaller, they run away
from everything bigger. And, with a
sense of security, the denizens
rev up their dinghies, brushing past
the snakes and spoon-bills.
My eyes are clogged by the free-floating
water hyacinths, in their vigorous growth.
With their tongues hanging out
they go to work: tending bellies
of boats, picking rags upon their
shoulders, polishing shine of
muddy gumboots; sometimes…
the bulldozer ravish to christen
them, as weeds.
When the tiny workers look up
at the sky to day-dream, to fly a kite,
the sky cries, and I cannot hide
my blistered face.
I need to cleanse my water;
let the nimble flowers read
the sky, stars and the trees,
from my wakeful slate; tomorrow