Golden Bosun

On our island,
eyes settle naturally on the horizon:
cobalt materialises
at every compass point.
But look up - see her weaving
pineapple seams!
Joyous weft on the breeze,
she swoops endlessly
in circles on the treetops.
The threads of her tail
spool out in lines
of flaxen tacking
woven over the bougainvillea.
She crosses over the green selvage
using the salty wind from the Indian Ocean.
She marks an X with her wings
in fleeting stitches on the stifling air.
Gold on blue, she weaves
a tapestry of oxygen.