Barbados

It seems that at last
you have won the right
you govern your own people,
maintain your own land – your island,
a dropped pearl on a chain –
those glorious white sand beaches
turtled in the palm-fringed silver moonlight,
where caiman writhe and bask
and those lush forested hills
where green monkeys cavort
and parrots squawk like Captain Flint.
Agoutis and brocket deer snuffle through the undergrowth.

Ever since the Kalinago people, forced to defer
to European ambition, greed and weaponry
claimed for the crown of Castile
this isle has never truly been yours.
The big house on the hill reminds us
of techniques of colonial mastery, those times
when your land was usurped by foreigners,
privateers and the enslaved
before the climate changed.
The air and seaways now bring waves of cruise ships
and airliners bringing outsiders from far off lands
to relax and soak in your nature
or workin’ up to Tuk and calypso beats and rhythms,

to the whispers of the palms
the waving of bearded mangroves
and the evening ocean surf,
that would tell them the past has made the present
strong and confident in a ruthless world
where not everyone plays cricket.

Bajans prepare to go it alone
or in cooperation.
How ever it pans out
the future will meet a new nation
bearing an ocean trident
with amity and Caribbean pride,
projecting contentment
and an exuberant love for life
that it would share with the world.