My Father's Car
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In Trinidad & Tobago
Once were ragged souls like chattels branded,
blown by Atlantic wind and sail in chains;
where long ago reeking slave ships landed
African herdsmen in old Port of Spain.
And from my Father's car I saw the yields
where cane would men of burden burn and mash,
where woman and child stooping in the fields
saw the ripping flesh and heard the whips lash.
Now broke are the fetters of time and fate -
that car, that relic of a dying age,
like the ships of old and their human freight
hunted, sold, and transported in a cage.
In my Father's old Plymouth Belvedere
I saw ghosts of the mills and the ploughshare.
Copyright © Keith Trestrail | Year Posted 2014
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