Skeete’s Bay, Barbados

(for Wayne Redman, d. 1978)

One always missed the turning, but found, in time
the broken sign that pointed crookedly, loth to
allow another stranger here. Perhaps this Tom
or Dick has plans for progress that will tow
the boats away and make them quaint; that will tame
this wild coast with pale rheumatics who tee
off where sea-egg shells and fishermen
now lie with unconcern. Naked children
and their sticks flush crabs from out their holes
and a bare-legged girl, dress in wet folds
wades slow towards a waning sun.
The sea rose angrily.
It knew that freedom here was short.
It remembered other coasts
made ‘mod’ by small-eyed men in big cars.
And as before, it knew she’d vanish
the bare-legged girl; the children and their crabs
would leave, a ‘better’ world would banish
them to imitation-coconut trays.
But those small eyes reflecting dollar signs
have not yet found the crooked finger to this peace;
and down the beach the women bathe their sons
who’ll never talk, like Pap, of fishing seasons past.
Only memory will turn down this way
when some old man somewhere recalls his day
on this beach where sea-egg shells once lay.