Nassau Harbor Near Paradise Bridge
Late afternoon blooms down
Through pink and green clouds.
Downtowners in bright office clothes
Stop by the old fishing boats.
To slurp down a raw conch before heading home.
A chalky white island
Evolves behind the fishing boats,
Emptied conch shells gleam underwater
Like so many skulls.
Old William Farrington and his last child, Cynthia,
Stop at the fishing boats for take-home:
Dried fly-specked strips of conch flesh.
They row out to their tiny houseboat, the pink one
With windows sawn crookedly,
Twin Evinrudes on the back.
A foreign sailboat has its own conch farm.
Americans string a dozen conchs together
By a hole in each pearlescent lip
And attach the line upward to their yacht.
The herd grazes peacefully in a meadow of sea grass,
Fattening up to be conch fritters.
WOW!!!!!
Barbary - this is SO evocative of place, I am just stunned at the imagery in my head. You, friend, are an amazing, incredible, extraordinary poet. Thank you for this gift.
Jessie Voigts
Publisher, wanderingeducators.com