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Poem

The morning sun hovers coyly
behind broad shoulders of the John Crow Mountain
before unwrapping petals of fever plant and Venice.
Mama’s countenance was far contrast to one so radiant, 
so when the old Leyland bus went shuddering along  gravel road
the first beams break through pinewood forest.

The old New Hampshire Red was up last night, 
bamboozled by the plump moon,
but all was still in the petite hours ‘fore daybreak.
His first boast was far too late;
Banties have already blown their tops, 
and warm rays long ago penetrated rabbit fence.
Leghorns proudly announced fresh eggs.

Beds were unoccupied and unmade.
Voices came, children in euphoria; 
oppressors were off to nine to five.
Nightingale sang an encore 
before morning forage, 
and gaiety commences. 

Brown skinned pickneys, 
like the color of the Balaclava clay, 
with reflections of innards on innocuous visages.
The hoopla lived until the Leyland snaked along treacherous drop
and the sun hastened to avoid mama’s air.
Chores rushed,
and mama voice ruined our names. 
Tomorrow, at first light, we will be children again.

Most of us have heard of lands where dogs licked their humans’ faces
and are driven about in carriages in nappies, 
while we loathe our predicament
some counterparts wrestle in grown-ups’ arenas; 
innocence lost to palm wine and brown-brown, 
and blood moves consciences far less than September’s rain. 
Will tomorrow’s shoots be allowed to be children,
delightful progenies?
Let the bright sun shine on Columbia, Cambodia, Guatemala, and Sierra Leone.

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