poetry by j matthew waters


From the highland region
Where the northern breeze
Brings inland the sea
Ancient trails once escorted
White men on well-dressed horses
Into a beauty called Bridgetown.
Besides its honesty, the grandeur
Of this place—wrapped
In ancient walls
And storied history—
Has little to do with surviving
Illicit trades or ugly slave wars
But in knowing the raging sea
Turns nearly empty dreams
Into untold realities.

september, two thousand eleven
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved

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