Salt
as if God spilt salt
on his midnight tablecloth
as if Gibran’s Ugly
had flung Beauty’s cloak
across the waters –
its soft light muted
in repentance
as if star by blue star
remembered the loss of each mother
and lit her face for a thousand years
as if matariki
leapt off calendar pages
turning in my veins
down through my fingers
bending to pluck
a purple orchid.
About this poem
This poem, representing Tuvalu, is part of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.
