A Street in Gros Islet: (After a painting by Derek Walcott)

Abstract

A wiry boy, left arm thrown straight for balance, Lugs a red bucket seawards. The street, empty Except for a rooster crossing, will reach the beach Three houses down. No face looks out at him From door or window; his face is turned away, But his leftward-torquing torso's almost playful, As if to make, of his tedious work, a dance. Behind the houses on the right, trees bend Their shadows left, to help him counterweight The bucket's drag. At Gros Islet, the sea Is west—that means the sun's north of the zenith; High summer noon, the sky a wash of zinc, And a mist-fine rain likely to form by nightfall. For now, the earth's bone dry. Where is he going, The hottest hour of a hot day, when even This voluble Caribbean village street Is silent? What does he carry that makes him strain Away from it so it won’t...