My Fathers Car
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Blown by Atlantic wind and sail in chains
once were ragged souls like chattels branded -
from the Guinea Coast to old Port of Spain
African herdsmen on slave ships landed.
From my father’s car I saw the cane yields
where men of burden would cut, burn, and mash,
where woman and child stooping in the fields
saw the ripping flesh and heard the whips lash.
Now broke are those fetters through time and fate -
that dark tyranny of a forepassed age,
like the ships of old and their human freight
hunted, sold, and transported in a cage.
In that old grey Plymouth Fury I swear
I saw ghosts of the mills and the ploughshare.
Written: December 2009
Copyright © Keith D Trestrail | Year Posted 2022
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