Two Hilltops

A white wedge glistening
under a great yellow bulb
it squats on the clifftop
clinging to the raw rock as if
some lair of a Bond villain
claustrophobic squares of glass
and iron
puncture the faceless blocks
a hexagonal tower broods
over its nest of thorns
its green metal hood palpable
above the black volcanic stones


‘Her majesty’s prison Grenada’
someone points out to me in passing
It would have meant nothing
just a curiosity
not even a photo opportunity
for my digital tourist eye
but for the history books
those silent whispers of truths
Maurice Bishop
ministers
unborn child in the womb
lined up
gunned down
in the basketball court of the wrecked
St. George’s fort
where I stood


I suppose
unjustly perhaps
it’s a poet’s moment or
maybe all who stand here do it
wonder if the executioners stare
from the barred windows
across the picturesque valley
a short distance to the scene
to where the blood ran
and the bodies were thrown from
the old English walls


Two hilltops close to each other
watching
in a constant eyeless vigil
the dead shadowing the incarcerated living
the triggermen and the would-be leaders
sleepless
with guilt or vengeance or nothing at all
I try to put myself there
inside the white wall
inside the trapped mind
finger on the trigger
but I fail
as I was bound to
and just keep my own brief but
intense watch