St George's, Grenada, Christmas Day Poem by Sailing to windward

On Christmas day
St George's bones were on display.
Usually hidden by the colour and throb
of beating hearts and motor cars,
today the streets were resting,
mending the pavement cracks,
and airing their spicy lanes.

The little final places wore new flowers
and these sat quietly amongst the green riot
of a year's ivy fed by warm rain and tears.
Tilted white stones and rusting rails
crown the hilly boney ground;
a hopeful viewing point,
where all eyes search the heavens.

Ivan’s furious path is still marked out,
but hope grows with the new flowers
And God hears his congregation the better,
from a house with a torn away roof.
They know this now, as they enjoy again,
in sixes and fours, the thwack
of willow on leather.

The tumbling, many faceted,
brightly coloured hillside
leans back in thick, fragrant heat,
wrapping the watery haven in artistry.
No carts spilling husks today, no hulks unloading.
The trade wind, and sea of laughing black faces,
reduced for once, to an occasional bright, astonished wave

Handsome Georgian windows hint
with peeling paint and crumbling frame,
at past treasures spent.
And faded soft green signs, above red and yellow brick,
attend politely to yesterday’s trade.
But tomorrow will see roofs rebuilt, and tomorrow
the hearts and motor cars return.