The Atlantic smoothes her shot-silk coverlet,
invites the early-retiring, over-sated Sun
to sink within and dream the morrow,
but the once-deserted beach of platinum sand,
lofty cocoanuts and spent rock honeycomb
has filled with a multitude of charcoal forms.
A team of slow-heaving, local fishermen
gleaming from the waist like burnished ebony,
are imposing their silent husbandry upon
the pristine and painted sands of Paradise.
Close at their heels battalions of small kids
ape their serenity with ill-concealed excitement:
there will be explosions of exuberant abandon.
But first the host of spoon-shaped fish, some as
large as earth-bananas and the mass of seaweed
pocked with clams, are all closely scrutinized.
A solemn minute for the catch to suffocate
and two dozen pairs of swift, dark hands
rain silver manna into salt-encrusted baskets.
One of the smallest boys is screaming fit to bust.
In a naked frenzy he charges back and forth
along the waters´ edge a sea-snake in his fist.
No greater than his puny fore-arm he shakes it
nonetheless, as once the mighty Hercules shook
the Hydra´s ninth, immortal monster head!
At the gales of irreverent laughter the Sun
shrugs off his oyster-satin gown, ruefully
looks back at the soon-to-be-forsaken shore
and at the horizon´s brass rail slinks beneath
a crimson quilt of cloud to embrace the night.
Photo: Terezinha Borges
