For Gordon Rohlehr
i woke one morning and the Caribbean was gone.
She’d definitely been there the night before, i’d heard her
singing in crickets and grasshoppers to the tambourine of the oncoming rain.
A childhood song. i slept down into childhood.
i woke blinking in a null glare without sunbeams, with no winkling motes,
all things bright and 20/20 visible in neon but unilluminated.
And though the finches, doves, bananaquits, tremblers, grackles, mockingbirds
sang to each other still, the music ended when their singing ended.
Not like the day before when what they sang were motifs in an overture,
a maypole reeling and unreeling of ourselves and other selves of nature
swirling out into a futuriginal symphony of civilisation entitling itself Caribbean.
i thought: she can’t be gone. If she is gone,
what is this place? With her gone, who am i?
If she is gone, who braids the fraying fibres of memory into accord?
Traces the beach footprints of our children back to... Read more
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