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