And his words dried inside him
like the flowers blow free
on the island that brought him up.
The words stopped like water in winter
and all poured into his hands.
In the garden he picked grasses;
he searched for tall grasses with stems,
to weave into the things he was feeling
he made garments from grass soft as felt
out of the pictures that grew in his hands
But no-one could understand his language,
no-one could read his writing,
no-one tried to translate
the wild song he still wove
from the island alive inside him.