Back from the dead

Back from the dead

Spirits fly high

At low tide

When the air smells

Of sulphur

As seaweed dries

Scrambled eggs are not

On the menu

Stomachs turn

On the promise of a memory

Mangroves hang in mist

A twist of tailfeathers

A shapeless wraith

Transformed

A Kingfisher

Bursting into sunbeam

A flash of colour

In a pot of glue

Bold Cuckoos call

For rain

To wash away the misery

Of humidity

The suffocation

Of air, heavy

With a sorrow

Of sea fog

A deceitful tide turning its back

On the bullfrog

Dreams are tossed

Back and forth

In the ebb and flow

And spirits laid low

Fly high