G L Trestrail and Co Ltd
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A rising sun burns like a solar flare
from St. Augustine to St. Clair,
to daze me from sleep’s tranquil hold
and dreams of serendipities of old -
to rise again the boy I was this day
long ago somehow someway.
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 and 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
yon where 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,
aye, where still waters 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.
O’ my past, my roots I did come to find
but I’m torn betwixt heart and mind -
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.
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
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