Christmas in Alurio
Pipe, bird, in the tamarind tree.
Pipe, wind, on the azure sea.
Here is the Season of Peace on Earth.
Pipe merrily.
Roar, surf, on the outer reef.
Sing, bird, on the plantain leaf.
Here is the Season of Joyous Living!
Have done with grief.
Whiter than snow, the surf rides in.
In the tamarind trees the songs begin.
Out in the tumble of blue upstarts
A flashing fin.
Shout, surf; and pipe, wind;
Though seas are wide, the world is kind.
Joy has a nest in the tamarind tree
For Love to find.
Over the cane-fields breaks the day.
The boats are out in Martin’s Bay;
Sliding and plunging into the surf,
Seaward to safety they bear away.
The salty sails flap up and fill;
The men at the wet sheets whistle shrill;
The glad wind wrinkles the sea, and leaps
To the coconut trees on the crooked hill.
The planter’s windmill, heavy and slow,
Turns its arms in the azure glow,
Waves a hand to the sea, and sweeps
The trampled canes in the yard below.
The morning smoke-wreaths fade away
In the brighter blue of the sudden day;
And naked children play in the sun,
Racing the surf of Martin’s bay.
The palms, high-crested and straight and fine,
Swing and bend in line on line.
The tall canes rustle and clash and sigh
As the winter wind goes over and by.
Our shutters creak in the breath of the sea;
And blackbirds hop in the almond tree.
Across the surf at the outer reef,
With skill and valour beyond belief,
The tiny fishing-boats plunge and strain,
Race and soar and top the surf,
And win to the lilac sands again.
The lithe brown children have gone to rest—
Shell-hunting over for one more day.
Purple the east and purple the west,
And white stars over Martin’s Bay.
The boats, dismasted, gunwale to side,
Rest and forget the turmoil and spray;
A dreamless sleep, till to-morrow’s tide
Slips from the sands of Martin’s Bay.
The salt wind turns in the crested grove;
The shutters creak in the turning wind;
But the lamps are lit for hearts that rove,
And the path is bright for joy to find.
A pink-walled house between the cane-fields and the surf was a good place in which to write verses. The sea sang in one’s ears all day there, and all night, too. The shimmer and flash of sunshine on breaking water filled the upper rooms all day; and all night they were filled with the wavering silver of reflected starshine. The coral rocks in the surf were black with wind and sea; the sand was lilac; and the surf riding in from the blue and green was white as washed wool.
