Tade Ipadeola
Annals of the Gambia
I
James Island:
That frozen phallus of a canon stares
Endlessly upon a fecund, ageless sea.
Witness trees, weather beaten and gnarled
Affinitize with the elements,
Whispering the songs
Of Neptune when the wind is high.
This is James Island,
Spartan as the sun
Where the fittest marched in chains to merge
With futures alien as the skin of shipmasters.
History was here, woven into syntax
Of the rolling, intrepid waves. History,
Ghostly now and fading, was here
Material as the mineral of the sea.
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