[Isle du Goreé, an island off the coast of W. Africa, was a principle site for the warehousing and embarkation of slaves for over two-hundred and fifty years. When I visited there in the late 60's, my gracious hosts did not mention this quaint 'footnote' of island history, preferring to usher me instead to the more visited sites of early French garrisons, fortifications and afternoon cafes. This more hidden side of island lore I had to discover myself during early morning walks when the rest of the island remained in a sleepy stupor from partying the night before. -rs]

Isle du Goreé

On top of a rounded hill, above it all,
a lone gun turret stares into the Atlantic
silent, vigilant, its open mouth voiceless
tasting the salt of seasonal offshore breezes
from the distant brownish haze of mainland.

Bittersweet moments piled at her side
hidden in small clumps of sand and brick
tufted with weeds and continental grasses,
she alone sits on rusted braces, watches,
waits within her crumbling perimeter of stone.

On the lee side, the island's only point of view,
uncertain pathways of brush and bramble yield
to narrow streets lined by tired and sagging walls,
limestone held together by the fraying chords
of bougainvillea and patches of second-hand moss.

Behind aging gaps, courtyards stare back in surprise;
a candid moment of dappled light shimmers
in the bowl of a dry fountain. In the light breeze
moths flutter under veils of an old wedding dress,
bench seats repair themselves with strawflower stalks.

Through eyeless windows dancing shoes pirouette
beneath a faded calendar lifting its page a little
in a breath of salt and smoke, a whirl of ash reaches
toward a shaft of light on the sill, but the moment passes,
withered bouquets fall to the floor in puffs of dust.

Disappointed, as if shamed by the curious eye,
she turns and hides in shaded modesty, the wind
dies, the weeds retreat into crevices of broken marble
under the glare of red tiled roofs, decaying fabric sighs
and crumples. The moths vanish, the cannon booms.

© 1997 red slider. All rights reserved.

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