Homeland
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The old colonial house, My father's birthplace, White shuttered, wooden slatted, Sags and settles on its haunches. A lewd stripteaze of peeling paint Reveals grey, sun-bleached timbers, Exposing the house for what it is - A brothel. Relentlessly indifferent, The sun hangs, a metallic sphere in space, Over the small town of New Amsterdam. History too, it seems, Tired of the sandflies, Has packed its bags and emigrated From this land of many waters Somewhere behind God's back. I am standing On the dark, varnished wooden floor, Mosquito nets - obscene bridal veils Hang in the breezeless air. My father, as a child, Leans from the window, Gazing out, Eyes deep with unfathomable histories, At the armies of clouds that march Across the wide, wide skies from Venezuela, Destined for other horizons. Eventually, he was to follow them. Darkness falls. Together we listen to the tree-frogs Outside the house Which perches so precariously On the edge of this vast continent Of perpetual decay. And a voice wails out From the ancient juke-box in the bottom-house: "Take me by the hand And lead me to the land Of ecstasy."
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Credits
- Writers
- Pauline Melville