The Cannibals

In Oceania the heat blazed
between islands: we went looking
for Ralph and Peterkin
sailing, sailing.

We slept where we beached
and left the tell-tale signs:
the skull and thigh-bones
blackening

amidst the camp fire ashes.
What joy it was to be young,
hungry and depraved,
skimming

the biscuit-tin ocean,
with the summer drumming,
on our woolly heads,
drumming

the ridges, eminences
of our natural skulls,
a sensation
beetling

over the waters, chortling
who has eaten who has eaten who?
Yes, we and the sharks
questioning

the Resurrection and circling
the feasting meridian
of the Pacific. In the Spring
scudding

– 44 –

by Wallis and Futuna;
they greeted us
with palm fronds,
waving

branches of conversion,
singing Stella Maris.
We did not stop there,
sailing, sailing.

We heard of the holy man’s
blood spilled at Futuna,
he, too, was our brother
blessing

this difficult vocation,
island to island,
all for the quest
seeking

alabaster and blue-eyed
Ralph and Peterkin,
the islands
reeking

of blood and high adventure.
We wrecked on a savage reef:
ah, the coral teeth and the wild sea

gleaming.

– 45 –

Another Country

And there’s
another country
under the white paint
and galvanised roofs
of this shanty harbour:

an autumn terrain
you’re searching for,
honeybee moraine,
honeycomb glacier,
premises of water
banishing the woman
with the narrow hips.

She’s waiting
on the zig-zag path
near the Esplanade,
she’s coughing up
a little blood:

inventive
to the point of untruth.