We sat on the half-moon verandah of my great aunt’s
bungalow – rondavel of black volcanic rock with a straw roof.
It was Sunday. We were full and too warm. We talked
about the weather and some distant cousin’s scandal, ignoring the
blue-green glittering before us. I think
I felt sleepy, bored by the mundane,
the usual conversation and the continual beauty
of sun and sea
playing. It was full moon time
and so the sea had risen to meet the sun. Then
some inane comment – I stifled a yawn and,
the sea rose a little bit more, crept towards the shore,
passing the highest high-mark tide. It’s pace
was that of a stalker – slow,
deliberate and wrong. The conversation lulled.
Everyone watched with discomfort this Caliban
lagoon lumber towards our feet. It was not a wave
but an oozing of liquid, like the breath of a drunk.
And then, the whole bay trembled as if in disgust,
maybe even fear. And everywhere,
the sea turned brown.