Confrontation: Road Town Harbour
Wind thrums the rigging while we rock at anchor.
Wind billows your white burnoose. Your black hands rise,
lifting it like unfolding wings. Its hood
obscures your face except for flashing eyes.
You talk about the barricade, old friend,
that one day soon will find us face to face.
Night howls around us. Whitecaps flash their teeth.
No friendship then will heal the wound of race.
The deck beneath us lifts, subsides, and tilts.
The tent of night is silk shot through with stars.
Tomorrow you are off to Africa
to take commands from savage commissars.
I hear waves crashing on the crescent beach
that fans outside the Pirate Cabaret.
My back is to the rail. The damp salt wind
whips hair against my cheeks in perilous play.
We still can laugh
Copyright © Judson Jerome