My Grandmother Sings To Me

My grandmother sings to me
her song entwined with the voice of my mother.
Our mother sang when the daylight dawned
on awakening from the womb
she sang the songs of the newly born,
an off key wailing that sentences parents to servitude.
The crystal rivers, turquoise waters of an island
flowed and ebbed to her voice.
Her song settled over rock stone, river stone
Benago Bay, Gouyave Bay, and Grand Anse.
She sang to her grandmother, Harriet
and cooled the hot macadam road
that burned bare feet as they walked
over the lanse.
Her song lies in the embroidered pillowcases
of Miss. Doris who taught her to sew
It lay warm in the oven-baked bread
of her mother.
Her song was ground into cinnamon
with pestle and mortar
sliced into chipped coconuts of sugar cakes
bubbled with boiled yam, fig, dasheen
stewed with damsons, boiled slowly
with guava jelly, guava cheese.
Flattened into cakes of farin.
This song sliced into the belly of jacks
shed their irridescent scales
made split pea soup overflowing with dumplings,
ground corn to make asham,
lighted oil lamps as the sun's rays
slipped from the swaying horizon.
When ocean weary the children of Noah
arrived in an inhospitable land her song grew faint
floated to the clouds
melted into the screeching of gulls.

Her melodies searching for solace
were resurrected between cold pews
and life giving Sunday morning sermons
Each child borne added harmony to her song
six children for ever singing at the hem of her skirt
demanding from her the world
which she gave.
Our songs will never leave you
and yours will not leave us.
My grandmother sings to you
as she sings to me
And you my mother have sung to me
as I now sing to you.

Maureen Roberts
Copyright by Maureen Roberts