Night Of The Alba

The audience sees you standing

behind the podium, but I know

you’ve long flattened the walls

of the room; you’ve gone leaping

across the Caribbean Sea.

There you spin and toss the islands.

Like a fuller’s earth you filter out

the slag of insularity, the waste

of creeping nationalism

until one shining stretch remains:

one place with one foundation,

one home named Region.

The crowd’s applause signals your return.

O Captain, your sea-legs are weary.

You make your way towards me,

grasp in both of yours, the hand

I’m holding out.

You’re anchored.