“to every line there is a time and a season.” (DW)
When have I not measured this land by your lines?
When have I not tracked blue-smoke pits to their river-stone roots by your metaphor?
When have I not walked, Walcott, by your fire-scorched love, through uptown lanes
of old Castries, strolled the revolving corners of Chaussée, Coral, Broglie, Victoria?
You leave us your covenants with the everlasting fretworked eaves
of Riverside Road, gommiercanots and their men from Dauphin to Vieux Fort,
theepiphanic groves of Mon Repos, the stone chapel of RivièreDorée, the turning
whispering of Methodist hymnals on Chisel Street.
It’s what’s left, at the end of the line (I imagine you insisting) that scans our lives,
marks our season’s faith, and amortizes all indentured loans.