My Windrush

This is my Windrush:

My hope, my fear , my salvation.

What comes of it is unknown,

As unknown as the cultural retribution

Now claimed by those once muted.

Unspoken destinations tantalise my journey

To nowhere, with nothing but ageing –

Maybe capturing a memory or two on 

The glass stair I’m climbing.

Look down.
There, the angels

Are singing calypso songs.

Fantastical fears and miracles

What could  go wrong?

Negating lifelines that limbered between

Ship and sea, amongst the sinners 

shaping and shifting those complicit and free.  

Embrace the future:

Tavel assured.

This is my Windrush.

I will be cured. 

Advertisement