Avicennia marina sway like women
with legs bare, salt encrusted in their hair
like starry nebulae; they wade knee-deep,
their viviparous offspring visible
as tender crowns and fontanelles
afloat in saline shade.
Little tongues of rain lick off the salt
that glands of leaves secrete,
pneumatophores submerge, the water
seeping through the spongy cells
with sighs as audible as silk,
the symbiosis manifest
as odours of fish-nurseries,
rich stench of phytogenic clans
inflected by the tides, in cycles
synchronising with the moon's.
Grey mangroves are an ambiguity,
their feet in sea, on land, emulating
women wading, reaching out their hands,
leaning into morning, where the birds
exclaim in wonder, as if they had
no sense of yesterday, no thought
of future plans; as if time could dissolve
like salt in water where the mangroves stand.
*Avicennia marina - grey mangroves