I am the marvel that is mangrove: torn by a hurricane from the shore and carried deep into the ocean where I find myself, adrift. By rights, I shouldn’t be here, for everything is against me. But over millennia, I have learnt how to survive and even more: thrive. Look at me, upright and homeless and proud as my moving form tiptoes on water, tossing the saltiness from my leaves back into the greedy waves.

I am the marvel that is mangrove: I make my own soil by ensnaring passing debris in my aerial roots, exposed to air and light, trapping the rain and simmering bacteria that fizzes with life. And then, when I am quite ready, I plant my seeds on to this floating islet that I am queen of, and my seeds stretch and scatter until my little peninsula becomes a floating ocean forest, always silent, never still, protecting the coastal people from cyclones and tsunamis.

I am the marvel that is mangrove: I move my forest-body slowly beneath the lashing rain and blistering sun. I do not know where I am going and only travel with the winds that propel me. Perhaps I will be pulled into the shores of a distant land, latching on to the roots of another as I move by. Perhaps I will never grow beyond a sapling, destined to dry or starve. Perhaps the storms I am subjected to will topple me. All I know is that I will keep drifting and dancing; I will continue with this itinerant life with crabs tickling my toes and gulls resting in my hair as the world turns on its axis. Night-day, day-night, I breathe.

I am the marvel that is mangrove.
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