My mother and the tsunami

The great wave came and missed her, she had distance:

Saw it nearing, climbed, while people passed her,

High enough to safeguard her existence.

For days I fretted, then a text. Then, faster

others came, like news reports but shorter:

For her it was a small, intense disaster.

Monks provided shelter, bottled water.

Medicines that she’d rescued came in handy.

A couple passed by looking for their daughter.

Scavenged diesel fuelled a jeep to Kandy.

There she stayed, reviewing what she’d saved,

and sent my kids a card, “My room was sandy,

Monkeys played there, after the big wave

We had to climb and hide behind a wall

The hotel owner called it a close shave.”

Years later, when the impact of the Galle

event had waned, as far as we could tell,

some mealtime chatter led her to recall

the horror. Worst, she said, was how the swell

had stranded bodies like big fish; and that

the thing that wouldn’t leave her was the smell.

That silenced us for seconds, then we ate.

Fairy steps and giant strides

It starts – as it always does - with fairy steps

silver dust, kicked up in sparkles,

as they pass in a corridor,

you-again, raised eyebrows,

coffee at the same time,

more or less, give or take a heartbeat.

Magical fairy steps

tiptoe-trip towards some future,

as they lunch, make unremarkable exchanges

her face tight with alertness,

slight uncertainty.

With the team day out,

come quickening fairy steps to the dinner

and imperative seats them

face to face, with wine and nerves on fire,

tension rising, like scalding steam.

Group-loud jokes fill the bar, connections

snip-snap into place across the team until

much later, quieter, two of them sit,

still, and patches of silvery glitter

settle round their dress-down shoes

in glowing moonlight pools

And he pauses, leans in,

takes a breath that holds her scent

and knows that, in a moment, he will take

a giant stride, towards or away.

This was placed second in a local poetry competition.