Flowers Of Stone Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(based on a beach in La Digue, Seychelles)

(i)

Taupe. And the world
is old stone, old rock. Skies spin
flowery rock splayed
to breathe in ambling and light
floating and trotting feet.

Times are taupe like a stretch
and rising spots of quiet
beach rock and ballooned
smooth stones washed off,

sculpted clean and tooth-picked
by gentle baby-pinching drizzles.

We're dashing to a land
of cyan and tiffany blue seas.
We're hotfooting to beaches
carpeted with metal

and fog gray sands, stretches
of soft powder blue seas
unfolding to lick and rub toes

and soles, as feet breathe in
a petrichor following light
breezy drizzles dappling off
faces draped in streams

coughed out by hot pores,
when sun burns brightest to bake
and blow with cold mouths
glossy skin anointed
by winds and breezes. Unfolding

afternoon handkerchiefs
flying and jumping
to brush and pad with rubbing
touches and nudges
landing big hugs on visitors.

Let the sun touch
a sleeping nerve in your spine
to spring you to your feet,

as we walk down hugging straits
of beach, shoulder to shoulder,
lip to lip tasting sea breeze
and the gentle rub of rolling air.

(ii)

Under skies flowered
with pink and hibiscus patches
and flamingo specks
floating like butterflies steering
glass and soft plastic of skies,

rolling backs and chests
stretched to sip
and drink more showers of sun.

Pelt off, hurry on. Hurry on
under gardens of sky
through a long-sighted gate
to a shore snatching
eyes with gold flowery stones

sprouting with every step
to bloom with planted
and deep-rooted stones,

lining bounced-off
and elastic waters
nibbling off fading jagged
coats of shore stretching out

fingers for a loud hi
dissolved by whispers swooshing
back tottering waters
to a swelling but unbloating belly
of a rippled blue-marbled sea.

(iii)

Let us switch on torches
of sun to pierce every track
carrying our sun-rayed feet

bouncing back beams
to grin-broadened faces,
every drop of ray
carrying fanning moths and milk

from light shooting with lynx
and eagle eyes
spots of memory rolling

through trimmed close
butterfly-sprayed
spaces steering every pace,

reef-knotted arms
glued together in a tide of palms
stroking temple and cheeks,
brushing nose tips

and piercing each other
with needle-tipped gazes,

as breath breathes in breath
and breathes out breath,
a sky of interwoven
stars crashing down chests.

Hurry on down the beach,
where an old man in his hundreds
of years stretches

a beaming latticed gold back
of old stone, every crawl
of his a deepening regolith.

O when the beach hits
you with more slices and splashes
of sun, sip the world.

Drink the sea
until you're drunk with breeze.

Let a blue sky collapse
on your dry ringing
and whistling chest, when a flame
of red cardinal rolls off
your sleeping buzzing hand.