The surf choruses salted ritual,
the crescendo of milky waves turn on each other
and then the shore rolls up and out
below a deserted sky, a frigate bird pinned to the canopy.
Shaded by the seagrapes, the island takes ownership of me
with its infinite grains of sand clutching my skin.
Cedars bloom, blushing pink through the emerald hills
west to the jagged granite cliffs and east
amongst smatterings of corrugated roofs.
The seagrape arches over the sand protectively,
waxy leaves spread and green the seascape
open to a single white sailed yacht
nodding its way across the horizon.
About this poem
This poem, representing the British Virgin Islands, is part of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.