The Islands

As my grandmother hums
To the rhythms of herbs she chops
And discusses all they’re healing properties-

I see the ever so distant past
Of a time more whole in its control,
For although we romanticize

The black and the white too
Of movie and ambition,
The truth is far more simple

In the minds of both
My humming grandmother
And my talkative grandfather,

But as there speech
Seems ever so distant
As if from a dystopian era so unlike my own-

I hear in their voices-
The slow drawl of the island accents
Of their childhood-

Which saw them
Wade in the emerald Caribbean
And play under the scorched sun-

Where colorism was excluded-
From the shores of their humble homes
And where life seemed all too dreary,

For they embodied the idealism-
Of a bygone era of societal unity,
So broken but all the more beautiful,

For in their voices I hear the sound of waves
As my Grandad and Grandma cook-
Sing and dance as they did

In the simpler, olden days of their childhood seclusion.