A memory of sixty six

Looking back at six At sixty six

A little boy at the window

It was like any other day

The prison bell broke morning Before the first fowl cock crowed

A lazy sun stretching daylight On gran-gran’s bed

Nothing fancy within their little two-by-four

Six years old

Oblivious to the early morning shower Knelt down beside his gran-gran Hands clasped in a prayer

Elbows still asleep On the edge of dawn

Maybe it was a school day

And the boy he had to learn a new anthem On top of the old

God save the Queen

And Hannibal who he never knew was black Crossing the Alps he could never find on a map

There is also this memory of a gloved white hand Swiveling on a robotic royal wrist

While throngs of black faces flirt with flags In the hot weight of afternoon sun

No fuss and fanfare independence curtains No memories of stew dumplings

Gran-gran might have turned a mellow cou-cou Laced with bonavis and green peas

That day was like every day

Gran-gran with her tray of contentment And her little great-gran by her side

No grand memory of sixty six Except for the step of the stallions

With their mounted guardians trotting pass his gaze From his window he saw the new pride

And wondered where it was all heading And why was he not present

Gran-gran in her rocking chair

And her little great-gran at the window Eyes searching into the future

Next day came nothing changed Prison bell before cock crow

The same lazy sun stretching across the bed

The residue of British hegemony Lingers on the window sill

Long after gran-gran’s passing

The boy grows into conscious manhood Looks back in through the window

For some meanings to sixty six.