Hummingbird – Angelina Ayers



See how the uncambered wings of a hummer
beat a hundred times a second
                                                                   to hold it still.
This flicker of greyed light is the half memory
of a ginger plant behind a beach

                               thick stem clusters
                                         cupping a small sunrise
                               close by Dad’s shed

corrugated rust and gunmetal blue
squinting into the early day.
                                                  He rubs his bare feet
on the sand-flecked floor, talks of England

how her green curves rise
                                                        and fall like breath
and every home has its own icebox
and each son will have his own perishables.
He relights his pipe
                                               looks out to his ginger tree
      where the hummingbird hovers, whips all its energy
into this one trick of feeding mid-air.