The clan you called

They are, to us in Poortjies, high specks.

“Come, come to us,” you say,
and they do, they come:
planing down, closer, towards us, open

raspberry-coloured underarms,
black extremities of wing,
they land and compose
themselves on the water,
each one facing the sun.

The whole clan of them face
the sun, and the sun
faces them: sets into
their heads bowed
upon the last light
on the water.

Swanlike, with grey youngsters, they swim-tread,
long-necked, white, but pink in parts, dipping their faces down,
occasionally below the high tide water, which is deeply, steely blue.

The flamingoes drift away from our talk. The clan you called,
their bright rose underarms, their hairpin necks and throats will sleep
soon, we suppose, on the lagoon, under the bright, full moon.

– Silke Heiss