pdf download - Westerly Magazine

SIMON BROWNBlue Hole, Santothe colour of cobalt, a hard metallic depthfed through chalked limestone that layersaeons of dead coral like a white pallwe first see it after rumbling by plantationsand cows, the calcerous skeletons of Corsairsand a landing field deserted by war(but not by tall coarse grasses and treeswith blades for trunks)then a glimpse of blue, a flash amid allthe green, lost as the car circles anotherstand of encroaching rainforestwhen the journey finally endswe are taken by surpriseI suppose we were expecting waterfallsthe Hole is a mouth, sixty feet deepthat smiles around its own tongue -you cannot forget its colour, it burns itselfinto your memory until all else is hiddenby shock - long, weeping branches hangover the water, expecting somethingit is one of the hottest daysour neoprene suits cook usshort of breath, pained by our discoverywe pull on our tanks and slipinto the cool, inviting questionwe enter a cathedralsitting on the bottom we look upthe surface is a series of revolving mirrorsreflecting blue then letting sunlightyellow, luminous, spear through98WESTERLY, No.2, JUNE, 1989