WOODWIND (for Luther Francois) by Gandolph St Clair
“The hat was weeding
The potato patch
The fork was digging
The rat laden marsh.
The fingers sprouting fish
The knees bent in prayer.
The coals glowing reddish;
The miners on the box, sipping beer.
The sword in the stone;
The night’s silent sleep.
The songs in your bone;
The whine was so cheap.
The bars without maids,
The drunks on ice water.
The police with hearing aids,
The jumbies jam the parking meter.
The waves went rambling;
The mermaids delight.
The stars sparsely spangling
The nudes of twilight.
The wars are being fought;
The weak made to feel strong.
The scars’ tissue never forgot;
The road to freedom winding long.
The mirror now cracked.
The years had endings.
The humour had masked
The face that grew its belongings.”
-END
