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.