Delicate human figures rinse under the sun
leap and wade in the Caribbean sea
like ardent devotees on a pilgrimage by the Ganges
A ferry at a distance travels to St. Lucia[i]
where the humid summer nights introduced Walcott to the demons
of creativity[ii].
The hills and the coconut trees
do not evoke memory
or rouse desire
as does the ice-cream emperor[iii]
selling lusty, phallic-shaped cones
to gaudy women
their tits setting the beach and the boys alight,
While children building purgative sand temples at a distance survey the wanton bodies
As the sun goes down
Desire takes over
Dionysian mingling thud the dance floor
Roman orgies shatter the sedate tune of Calypso[iv].
The ferry meanwhile unloads wheat-sacks at the St. Lucia port
and gets ready to cargo plantains in its belly
the world of intoxications and urges lingers beyond its grasp.
