#13 Islands, Rise.

The same arms that stretched out of a restful night,

sought to give liberty to aged, wooden shutters,

battered by gale force winds more than twice in their lifetime.

Sensitive, round nostrils still twitched at the residual smell of turpentine,

while fingers,

slower and arthritic, felt for the familiar chill of metal braces.

The rusting steel bolts resisted, but eventually cowered under ginger pressure,

and stiff hinges gave way with each worn creak

to misty rays of light, borne from the east,

that mingled with old friends as they slowly progressed,

poignantly aware of their inevitable demise in the west.

Salty sprays from a rowdy ocean become re-acquainted

with the soft breeze, that lulled sea foam into clandestine coves,

and both, forgetting they had met every single day before,

fell into each other’s beauty once again;

quite gently

and came to finally rest over mahogany cheeks…

lingering,

but for a moment.

The scurry of anxious paws, and scratching feet

both known and unknown began their day

under foliage of green and flaxen tones.

Branches that have danced for generations before,

sway in time to the rhythm of life fluttering above,

below and beside them,

anxious to teach their tribal rhythms to generations to come;

but for the moment, their eclectic beats, ever changing in the easy gusts,

enlighten ears protected by a cotton scarf

tied over thick black plaits, greying ever so lightly.

Bright mauve, burnt orange, sky blue.

Colours have risen out of clay and loam,

dew has bathed them, reaching far and wide over limestone.

Fevergrass and sage have begun to cast their spells,

addictively combined with the scent of freshly baked bread;

and as the globe of fire climbs higher, signalling the hour

for once outstretched arms

to till, to plant, to feed

to carry, to guide, to teach;

a flurry of wings will rest,

and from its perch,

a turtle dove will begin

its haunting morning call.

 My Inspiration: A turtle dove singing outside my window (2014) 

© KohylahPiper 2015

#5 Hallowed Ground

While walking through the city,

have you ever heard that sound?

A slight echo of a distant memory

rushing deep from underground.

The shuffle of our busy feet

manages to mask the wail

of the coral shell

pressed to the lips of a princely rebel

who from freedom came,

and for it,

whose life was laid.

When driving through the country side,

have you ever just happened to see,

the transient shapes and forms of hands that laboured so we could dare to dream?

The rolling hills and valleys low

have immortalized their will,

in textured folds breathing life

into their greatest hope…

Us.

Yet we ignore them still.

When you look across the ocean,

standing on bricks of time,

found on windy summits in the south east

picturesque against Atlantic tides,

have you ever felt the descent of shadows,

gathering slowly under the sun’s calm shine?

Of those who first uttered “Wa’ladli”

the precursor to national pride.

They first said “Our own”

This land.

Yours and mine.

Yet sometimes it seems as if it weren't true,

as if we've forgotten those times,

as if we deem them as unreal,

as hallucinations of an imaginative mind.

For not many have heard that coral shell,

taken long ago from our seas,

very few have been compelled to listen

to its emotive drone in entirety.

Very few have seen the portraits

of those callused hands that bled,

whose eyes watch us fiercely, angry now,

for mocking what that love and sacrifice meant.

Not many have felt those shadows

of those unnamed, true discoverers from long before

who stood united chanting “Wa’ladli”

This land.

Our own.

Mine and yours.

So sometimes it seems as if it weren't true,

as if we've forgotten those times,

as if we deem them as unreal,

as hallucinations of an imaginative mind.

For many will be born, will grow,

and will surely die,

without having found

that this rock of pink sands,

trade winds and gentle lands,

of clear seas and oceans combined,

of hidden wealth and strength by design,

of unexplored potential

that blindly reaps what we sow;

this rock…

that cannot grow,

until we decide to grow.

For many will be born,

and many will grow, and die

not realizing our reflection is found,

beneath our own busy feet;

all the while,

forgotten.

Fragile, yet unyielding.

Hallowed ground.

My Inspiration: Shirley's Heights, Antigua

  (2014)

© KohylahPiper 2015