Poetry Magazines - The best collection of poetry magazines online - Simon Armitage

[first version - haiku positions indicated]

The town is deserted in the early afternoon though, with the turning of the tide, a warm wind tempers the tropical heat. I turn into the shade of the Promenade Gardens.

[Lush blooms]

These gardens are my favourite place for solitude in spite of the many warnings. Almost everyone I know has told me of the Englishwoman who was murdered here by a madman. She stopped off for the day from a ship and went for a walk while her doctor husband looked round the Public Hospital. He was called to an emergency and found the dead body of his dear wife. Everyone who recounts the tale adds this endearment. People tell me this story as though it were recent but it happened ten years ago.

[nectar drips]

When I come out into Middle Street the road is empty apart from one old man who is coming towards me. As he reaches me he starts to speak. He has a heavy accent and I strain to understand.

[pink tongue]

In shock I realise that he is haranguing me about slavery. Stunned by his vituperation I see a shiny black nose on worn grey face, bloodshot eyes under sagging lids, quivering tongue. I turn from him and walk on. He follows me for a few yards then he too turns away.

[In the silence]

It is 1966, less than a hundred years since slavery ended here. There are many who have heard directly from parents or grandparents of life under this atrocious system. I feel the sins of my ancestors: slavery, opium wars, colonial exploitation... In England I have become a foreigner through marriage; here I am part of the oppression which I abhor.

Walking home I remember a frequently recurring dream

 Alone between
 two dancing circles
 white and black.