Bermuda Islands' Visitor
I have no idea
How I happened to be on the cliffs
Of a North Shore park that day.
Perhaps a bolt from the busy shop
On my trusty moped
With a thermos of tea and a sandwich,
Needing rocks and waves for sanity.
Nobody else was there.
Sun and sea were mine.
When I chucked my waste into the bin
I glanced up.
Islanders look at the sky a lot.
There's so much of it!
A huge, dark bird, wings like a giant scythe,
Was flying overhead.
It spiralled upwards in perfect circles
Riding air currents
With unerring centre point.
I was struck by its beauty, its power.
Up and up it soared, smaller and smaller
Until - just a dot - it vanished.
And I breathed again.
That evening the weatherman said,
'A frigate bird was spotted at Spittal Pond today.
A rare sight indeed.
Apparently, it 'touched down' from its ocean flight.
Nobody quite knows why.'
He beamed from the screen, pleased with his story.
I covered a smile with my fingers
And whispered into my palm,
'Ahhhh. I know why.'