Friday, August 20, 2010

Night Poem 1

I must explain
what I can only
come at
like a child
with her fingers
over her eyes
so as not to let
the world
see her.

The bowl of limes
from our stunted tree
holds its sharpness
inside but bleeds
colour into
 the winter air.
I am writing
myself a lullaby -
song of the old times -
one arm resting
beside the bowl of limes.

In this house
I make the lullabies,
soothe fearful
children to their sleep,

 lie awake to the radio -
noise from the island -
music that mocks
with its drone
underneath the melody,
drags me right into
its heart,
its earth, its black
earth, its night,
its contagion.

Yet here I prosper.
Be not afeard,
the Isle is full of noises.