☼   ☼ 

She was the youngest daughter of a Polynesian chieftain

her soft flesh wore the colour of sun-blushed, dried cinnamon 

 she could sway her hips like Guava trees in a high wind

or pandanus which she loved and whose fruit she carried  

home to her father, those hairy, hard shells so heavy

☼   ☼   ☼

Hapoelle’s breasts hung like two mountain apples

 all these island girls, capricious, still went semi-naked in 1845

the year Baladins boat came to rest on the coral sand dunes

and the ships crew put up, to take comfort in the local nation

whose manners chipper wore a plaited and flowered welcome garland!

☼   ☼   ☼

… and Bellannea, Hapoelle’s friend with bosoms he likened to Lilikol

for they were round, ripe and generous, she slept with John Dray

for all the long while they encamped upon that sunny island

and Dray drew pictures of her every day, with a stick of sketchers’ sanguine

he had bought for a penny in an artist’s shop near Kennington Oval in London


Baladins’ fondness for the chieftains maiden served only

to leave him melancholic for a woman he had promised to back home:

she of fairer skin and lighter sympathy would not have dallied so

or made almond eyes at an honest gentleman, half betroth to wife

he was caught now in a honey trap and only drank the hummingbirds sap

☼   ☼   ☼

He rolled with Hapoelle his native lover and learned to speak of intimacy with her

while his deeper heart settled on a corner of Albion, where oak-lined villages wait

 a gamble of ‘little lambs’ standing on the wide horizon in the heat of a July sun 

children, watching masted trawler boats return to this Britains shore to make her great

Baladin’s eyes heavy, his jaw set at the memory of the pinkest salmon in Britains rivers

☼   ☼   ☼

 The masters of regret caught this one failed mission in an ocean ranger’s eye

those purple mists of time ragged, bloody and faded, cannot rob the man that moment

nor his sight, long in the maze of memory which causes him to smile and mimic sense

he recalling the freshness of her breath, the lightness of her girth and quiver

the many gentle moments and pleasure she loaned him in that strangest summer

☼   ☼    

If summer she be, when settled on a Polynesian Island in the years when the whale,

both giant and gentle, was still birthing a nation at the heart of the Western Isles

those morbid midwives who sing wistful tales, arctic and northern nahwals

not sperm and humpback, the soulful Baladin, his captain and his crew knew

courted, chased and lauded with folk songs of wistful reason and lament

☼   ☼   ☼

Baladin has been riding these waves of histories choices for the years of 100 and 3

his dream has lived through longer than the pale afternoon of those sunnier days

when those sweetest companions of lust and beauty, soft sirens in warm, tropic seas

were moist moments adorned with the heat of young and ardent pleasure

yet still worn of a season of pride where captains of the past salute future’s ambassadors

☼   ☼   ☼

written byedenbray09.03.2012


About edenbray

I've always enjoyed writing and thats all I want to do... .. . I’m not sure why I stopped writing, was it 9/11? .. . Eden Bray is born ugly, wet and covered in blood, mucous and bodily functions. The effluence of my short life .. . I'm a Writer and Artist - since 1966, now a Blogger ~ I write lots of poems, written essays, articles, reviews, opinion + comment .. . please join the shebang but more importantly please leave me a marker with a comment for my ego and my encouragement :- thanks, edenbray
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