Oracabessa

    An iron wrought gate of turpentine force conveys little pigment,
    almost black parchment letters mindful of
    hands, arched and stroked from the very stone, until an
    elephantine water runs nettle sand to their granite perch.
    The broiling heat in this part of the Indies one knows must,
    posthaste, carry to the humus and flies any modicum of human remains.
    And, over distant dispatch of time, the elongated sprawl of waves dashing up straight to the shallow's grave, makes
    memory drawn, any record of the little parish's dead flimsy
    in the topsy context of soil and undulant peat.

    A greened isle stares past the feckless scene, past again an
    aged church noticeboard that scrapes out traces of news
    worthy of import to the wormy road.
    Whitewash, the colour of the shackled crypts, casts upon
    the church a pallor of distraught gray.
    A goat is seen foraging between such marker stones.
    The day seems to cut into the marble white detachment
    of the sarcophagi with abrupt candor.
    Yet, while the cove pokes like a walking stick, the sun &
    earth conspire to reclaim this space as their rightful bread.
    A huge vegetative urge to growth is witness to abundant
    further life - life in whorls of bamboo shoot, naseberry
    thatches & canebreak all garnished a short stride across the barrier gate.