![]() ![]() ![]() Red tiles too have been layered over the crab holesĪnd black mud, but much else has not changed.īums still beg for alms, rats still scurry off Wafts through the shuffle of people walkingīetween concrete kitchens that have evolved The smoke from meat frizzling in pans of oil Tourist, smiling even when they don’t mean it,Īs believers sing hosannas to miracle workers Yet English seems as foreign here as are French Francs. People exchange pleasantries in patois as fluently No longer seem as litter but part of the décor.Īnd head ties that never go out of style. Just as leaves of lettuce on the ground outside, The floor’s enamel, still there from the last timeĬeases from being an eyesore after you get used to it, Of a Hindu temple planted in a Malaysian jungle Of the craft market where its animal masksĪnd abstract paintings give it the bearings The smell of coco and straw fill the isles Ringing from surrounding rum shops sound likeĬhurch bells to those who worship the spirits. ![]() Trying to sell their mastery to a mass of black folk. In the exaggerated voices of politicians, Holds all in its vicinity back in time with it.Įchoes of slave auctions can still be heard Its clock, stuck in the seventeenth century Hazel Simmons McDonald, Saint Lucia/BarbadosĪrt work by Kate Spencer Walwyn, St. ![]()
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