III
Oh howling hill of forts,
and forgotten thoughts of
futile doom,
where dead men fought and
fell
for monarchs from far off
places.
Great wound of my heaving
heart
without which there would
have been no healing.
Oh grieving eye, harbour
of an island's comings and goings,
and leavings, salty
gloaming of our secrets and our losses
hidden like oil denied or
shipwrecks awaiting dredging.
You have lost your coast,
I would have lost my way
except for the glimmer of
your lighthouse
among the weeping night
sky's guiding stars,
spread out like a
harbour's commerce of ships.
Oh howling bowl, begging
bowl of the Bocas,
your bowels sought
and bought and sold in US dollars.
You have lost your land, I
would have lost my way
were it not for your
stereoscopic healing and congealing
the dichotomy of my cloven
split of flesh and spirit.
My barren rock of
flowering frigate and caularthron,
my virgin splendour and
beauty of pelican and prickly cacti,
your wild and unspoiled
art was the unveiling of my heart.
© 2012 by G Newton V Chance
