As we approached La Ronde,

I pondered the

revolutions of Time and

of my life housed

Therein.

Now lost,

with the departing

of my kin.

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John from Blackbess St.Peter

owns this yellow bus we travel on,

a-sway on the West Coast road to the reggae tunes

accented by the horn - our soundtrack.

Identified

as Tourist due to

my pale love,

although my heart and soul

beats

for this coral isle.

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Are long and

broad

and tell a story

of their own.

But I can

only remember their

safe carriage of my small

childish feet

dancing step by step

in time,

seeming so large and remote.

Now they’re just

average-sized.

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Through hills, fallow fields,

look-out towers, and

chattel houses - I feel you.

Amongst the palm,

flamboyant and paw paw trees

and as the Black-belly sheep graze - I see you.

You whisper in my ear as the

sea breezes

atop Bathsheba Rock.

Up Gun Hill, across the length of the East Coast Road

and down Cattlewash

- I remember you:

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The bubbles are coursing through my veins,

speeding to my empty

stomach.

Leaving me floaty, yet inert

and rendering my mouth

dry and thirsty.

I am toasting you.

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After the matriarch:

strong, stubborn and loving -

all mouths fed and nourished

and welcomed into the home.

That I could achieve a tenth of your worth.

Even now you're a marvel,

struggling and surviving 

a tired, confused mind.

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She snuck 

under cover

into the Us-sized

space

telling tales

of dynamite

and gunshots.

Stimulating

your intellectual-loving

juices, and

tensing

your fitness-loving

muscles

with her

10k promises.

Freedom - she sold

whilst being occupied

by another.

She ignited your heart

despite her

cragged face - (...

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You look stunningly well,

really well. He said

and the saga continued.

The old message is replayed

and the hint of history

appears.

Wisened hearts

momentarily

embrace

and spring apart

like 

caught lovers

until we're just here

again.

Words hide amongst words

masquerading as 

idle chatter

but with familiar

u...

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