My Father's Car
Once were ragged souls like chattels branded,
Blown by Atlantic wind and tide in chains:
Where long ago reeking slave ships landed
African herdsmen in old Port of Spain.
And from my Father's car I saw the yields
Where cane would men of burden burn and mash:
Where woman and child stooping in the fields
Saw the ripping flesh and heard the whips lash.
And so I muse of an unfettered fate -
That car, that relic of a dying age:
Like the ships of old and their human freight
Hunted, sold, and transported in a cage.
In my Father's old Plymouth Belvedere
I saw the ghosts of the mills and ploughshare.
Trinidad & Tobago