The mangrove trees cradle boughs laden with leaves
close to their chests.
Below, their unborn fruit lie forgotten,
studding salt-encrusted sands.
An underworld of leaf litter
carpets their remains.
Light dapples the surface of warm pools,
where sea-cow children frolic,
raise their flippers to the sky,
Schools of snapper whisk by
in swathes of liquid silver,
chased by otters gambolling
in a deadly dance of scale and claw.
Nearby, a heron slouches
in wilful insouciance.
Its feathers are a palette
mixed with cloud and sky.
I slip your ashes under the water’s bare skin,
reel myself in like a fishing rod.
the heron spreads its wings,
carves an archway out of longing.
Sarah Ang is a nineteen-year-old writer from the tropical city-state of Singapore. She has won multiple international awards for her writing, including first place in the IGGY and Litro Young Writer’s Prize, second place in the Blue Mountain Arts Poetry Contest, and third place in the Ledbury Poetry Competition for Young People. Her work has also been featured in publications such as Alexandria Quarterly, Medusa’s Laugh Press, the Claremont Review, Page & Spine and the Forest for the Trees Journal, among others.