(The eastern mage, all wise and numbered three,
to manger led the star of mystery) [Part I]
Leviathan of the leather shell,
I know your pain, your plight, too well;
living fossil of prehistoric time,
supreme sailor of the oceanic tide,
your labour of laying, a scene sublime—
to watch you shift the sands your eggs to hide.
As a boy I would sit with my father,
while twilight drew her sepia curtain down
upon the weary day,
and watch the turtle star
descend above evening's horizon
till it dipped beneath the turquoise water;
and when fearful lightning flashed
and then the thunder rolled,
(Shango did his sombre drum-roll solo,
with elemental cymbal crash)
your abdomen would burn
and we for sure would know
that you would lay the burden of your yolk
and albumen to rest
on beaches that once were
shores of tranquillity
before the beasts called men
had invaded their pristine privacy.
Mighty mariner of the ocean depths
unerringly retracing natal steps
to return to shore where you were born
with biological compass so sure
to faithful lay your fecund burden down
in sandy hands of Mother Nature.
Then cruel men your landing would await
as you proceeded with ponderous gait
to cross high water mark
and thence commence to excavate your nest;
but then those men your progress would arrest,
would turn you over helpless on your back—
you so powerful of the leatherback,
as if drawn by naval string of navel
to navigate around the world and back,
not like Cristobal greeted by Isabel
with pomp and royal splendour,
instead waylaid by poacher
of mien crude and mean,
with murderous attack,
determined to do you in.
Copyright ©2001 by G. Newton V. Chance
