Asquith Street, Jones Town

A long spine of asphalt, sizzling black The macka back cart rumbling On the morning nerve, herring sprat Is high life some days in this place Across the street the bakery Up the street the parrot teaching me to curse The hollow determination in any face For we were all connected by a common shame The sense that here was the bottom And our pain was those on top of us And zinc fences surrounding us In the prison of our dream. I was the child at the back of the crowd After the evening prayers And the rush for freedom From the classroom corals that punished our desire To find our own direction amidst the squall Of trickery and gun fire ... I was the child like a raggamuffin on the street The distractor so my friends could cheat Mr Bola of his dumplings My pocket tell the truth of grease in them I was the child stoning the mango trees And then close to my gate ... drop back, boy Behold, out of me a muted lamb appear I remember, Mrs Donaldson, Byfield And the tall wall, high as the East Indian tree I remember Scott, Penley The girl who almost stole my virginity And long not now my inocense to keep What joy for it I could have reaped But I had neither asphalt nor concrete Not backbone Not knowledge of self, no longing for a me While England's song I hummed those days And mother's voice was my leash. I could break on law Without my brother's raw anger, the basket of his pride The tamarind switch, my burning skin The street at noonday filled with din Firm as a cross And I wandering it bewitched and lost.