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A rising sun in the east does appear
  from St. Augustine to St. Clair,
to loose me from sleep’s tranquil hold
  and dreams of serendipities of old -
to rise again the boy I was long ago
  in the land of pan and calypso.

Behold, sitting at the brethren table
  under my aunts’ roof and gable -
theological instruction in white livery
  served hot with breakfast and tea.
Barzey with bible, Della in her apron
  feed body and spirit lest you sin!

City streets beat soca and reggae
  and all roads lead to Broadway.
The breath of molasses, oil and grain
  perfumes the air in Port of Spain -
the smells, sights, sounds, the spirit
  were just as I’d remembered it.

How a tangled human thread weaves
  beggars, merchants and thieves.
Feel the African diaspora in the street
  where old East and West meet -
the sailing boats that passed this way
  from old Calcutta and Bombay.

Where blows off gulf and island sand
  warm trade winds where the land
reclaimed the sea its depths to keep,
  where old inequities run deep -
now all that ebbs and flows in the end
  are the fortunes of my countrymen.

Drivers, porters, cashiers and clerks
  begin their stationed daily works -
traders, vendors, cries and laughters
  echo the old dusty steel rafters -
talebearers of urban legends evermore
  like their fathers and fathers before.

On old bound handwritten pages still
  in logs and ledgers do orders fill,
where a handshake and a bill of sale
  bears the stamp of G.L. Trestrail.
Then riding every bump and pothole
  out loaded cigarette vans roll.

Me and old Yankee riding shotgun
  head out on our morning run,
in the hills of St James bandits to steal
  or ambush badlands of Laventille,
where under the sun lurks precarious
  dark shadows bold and nefarious.

Where the leaning lighthouse stands
  on the dockside’s shifting sands -
under meridian blue sky wide and far
  past the tanneries and abattoir,
or in-country make my island rounds
  up Eastern Main Rd town to town.

Or Princess Margaret Highway south 
  from out of the Dragon’s Mouth -
immortelle flowers twist in the breeze,
  poinsettias and yellow poui trees
from the singing rainforest to the sea
  past plains and wetlands of Caroni.

And all day long see Yankee and Stowe
  load their dry goods barrows to go.
Old post-war flatbed trucks that come
  town and village all corners from -
past the estates and sugar mill yields
  to the burning gas and oilfields.

Rum; Angostura Bitters; beer; whiskey;
  and ship containers off South Quay.
Tobacco; cane sugar; salt; flour; grain;
  gas lamps and refills of butane.
Bay Rum and Harveys Bristol Cream
  and walls of paper by the ream.

Silton, now slowed (the passing years)
  a lifetime of service proudly bears.
Behold merchant princes at the helm -
  see King Richard in his realm
and Grand Duke of Broadway, Mr Ali,
  hold court at Trestrail & Company.

A little general my “padna” in ole talk,
  a puppet master on the sidewalk
he’s safeguarded nigh on forty years -
  his voice still ringing in my ears!
And from the office windows through
  gaze prying eyes on all that I do.

At week’s end in life’s long injured toll
  fill cashier bags with coins of gold,
for the sick and poor fallen from grace -
  where death has a human face.
Truly all memory and fate near and far
  remind us of who and what we are.

I hearken back to that boy years before
  when I first walked through its door,
for my past, my roots I did come to find
  but I’m torn betwixt heart and mind -
O’ and what of the boy this land begot?
  I know not who I am, just who I’m not.

I miss my flying fish, plantain and rice
  with pigeon peas, tania and spice,  
but the sun of empire and sun of mine
  alas has set on this place and time,
yet I will afar remember forevermore
  a day in the life at The Store.


          Written: March 1990


Broadway, Port of Spain pictured above.
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