A THOUSAND SOULS

Here's a poem I wrote several years ago about the Salt Cay public cemetary.

A parched and glaring half acre,
on a hillside,
with a few weeds and no trees.
surrounded by a low stone wall,
and iron gates.
The spectre of a white heron in flight,
the only motion in the complete stillness.
Two or three recent graves—
whitewashed, cinder block vaults.
Only one of them has a marker.
Some dozens of older markers,
eroded grey limestone,
all unreadable—-telling no story.
The place appears mostly empty
with enough space for many more
to end the journey there.
Yet, wherever they dig new graves
the bones of earlier residents
are turned up.
The place is really very full.
Close examination shows a pattern—
a grave every few feet—
in all, at least a thousand interred there
in the past 400 years.
Slaves mostly,
but also masters.
Salt makers
and sailors,
businessmen,
and government functionaries.
Wives and children
and mistresses.
Yellow fever victims,
and drowning victims,
murder victims,
brutality victims,
and just life victims.
1000 souls in 400 years,
1000 bodies
baking in the tropical sun.


Copyright 2006 by Nelson E. Hay