for Derek Walcott & Sigrid Nama
At the end of this sentence, rain will begin.
— D.W., “Archipelagos,” Map of the New World
1.
Part of the bannister-railing is absent
in spite of its strong metal-rivet moorings.
Termite-eaten, consumed by the sea,
I can see its woody skeleton float faraway
among the surf, its salt-scarred coat
tossing and struggling to keep afloat
against the waves’ incessant lashing.
There is music in its disappearance —
a buoyant symphony,
note-strokes resurrecting life,
a new story — history restored
by resilient fingers of a master artist.
Wheelchair and weak legs
are inconsequential impediments —
his mind sparking with electric edge,
whiplash wit at its most acerbic.
There is generosity for family, friends —
those who are gone, and remain —
and thirty new poems,
an intricate magic of ekphrastic love.
2.
In the front garden facing the same sea
with Pigeon Island on the horizon’s left,
lies a cluster of wind-eroded oval rocks —
their shapes mimic a lost egret’s nest
or a ballerina’s curved arch —
a stone-memorial for a close friend.
3.
The driftwood is now out of sight —
part of his house donated to the sea —
in gratitude the sea sings
a raucous song,
folded cumulonimbus clouds echo
in synchronicity — a soundscape
absorbing his commandment:
At the end of this sentence, rain will begin.
Castries, St Lucia