Carenage, scourge of government neglect, <br />Limps in hills, a fugitive of Justice <br />With gun and the 'white lady.' <br />You cannot get your head around Ganja <br />To see her unless well connected while <br />Police play at patrols pathetically. <br />From the heart of St. James we moved there - <br />God knows why: I don't. <br />A throw back to Middle Ages <br />Except change and renaissance are foreign, <br />Just rebellion - lots of it <br />Always lurking, hiding cause <br />Like bubonic plague decked in death's black suit. <br />Wakes, flavour the day with <br />Coffee, rum and pelau serving mourners <br />And singers with All Fours players jostling <br />Like netted fish to hang Jack. <br />No invitation needed, strangers <br />Invade cracking cries with <br />Sincerity like moirologists <br />Amidst bongos beating feet in rhythmic <br />Rituals. Candles on edges, wink <br />Vertical eyes at fireflies sending <br />Morse code in suicidal flicks. <br />As a boy I never understood the <br />Ceremony embalmed with merriment; <br />As an adult I still don't. <br />You wake, you watch, you wait, you hope.... <br />In the wake of wakes, where is the key to <br />Unlock and unzip steel lips of the dead? <br />What unseen hand can lift Carenage <br />From the pit?<br /><br />Robert Dummett<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/carenage/
