Lights of Castries
Fraser Sutherland

Every few years a hurricane abolishes history
and it all starts again, the lights
of the watery prism, glints of the barracoon.
On the hillside, from the dense green
made denser in darkness, come threep, threep
toc toc of ongoing animals. Somewhere
someone's weaving a mat, carving a coconut
the same as always, and someone else is promised
a delivery, an object, a service soon from now
meaning next hour, next day, or never.
People learn to be patient, or be a patient.
Everyone's hypochondriacal, ills often
just the climate (there is no weather) dusty sun
a radiant wall, shelter that menaces,
and pregnancies are like nine-month annunciations.
Night and day snap on and off, soon
dawn, a window blind rattling to the top
and then the sun's fierce grin zipped
by the equator, zapping the epidermis. Purdah
fires burn on the midden
common on which drift gross pig, stunted sheep.
Vans beep, gun for streetwise chickens,
always miss them. Those birds have the most road sense
on the island except the cocks in Sunday cockfights
who got no sense at all. Down the road drivers
bathe their cars in bilharzia streams.
Mothers flock at streetcorner pumps as
children slant to school past
garbage gutters, yard rubble, diesel nimbus
and how do little girls, all starched blouses
crisp-pleated skirts, bleached socks, shine
this unreally clean? At night
lights are flung to other islands along
a chain, necklace, diadem, of diamond, pearl
sequin, rhinestone. On the south peak
the lighthouse on Moule-a-Chique
sweeps the channel to St. Vincent. Light Caribbean
mates dark Atlantic, and here in Castries
the so-called north, lights on the bridge
of yachts may be a bridge to Martinique, like
the Africançais people speak, patois
kitchen markets. Cars pause abreast
on mineshaft roads, chat like pastured horses.
Groggy from last night's rumshop, they crack open
a green coconut, drink the milk
whatever they drink at the pink Club Med stockade
scuba disco where the packaged grill on
grated volcano sand. That's one crop
for the once slave sugar island shaped
like an avocado, the other
indentured bananas, green figs going nowhere.
Harbour riding lights,
airstrip running lights,
cargo cult for those who while by dock and terminal.
Ever always earth and sea: pot fish
ground provisions, seasoning peppers. Talk
round the table, in the bush, cool off
wait, walk slow, tomorrow
shriveling sun or pounding rain, no wind
and then the big one.

St. Lucia

© Fraser Sutherland