Ammophila

in memoriam Derek Walcott (1930–2017) That sail which leans on light, tired of islands

Who could be tired of islands, the ones amongthe archipelago we call the LesserAntilles? Only a sail could be so tired.

I tried in vain to utilize a clusterof sea grapes in this poem, but they belongto you now; I am not as brazen as

I used to be … Along a white sand beachthis morning, I revised the sea grapes, transformedthem into grass, the dull and common plant

that few can rightly name as ammophila:as you so aptly cautioned years ago,the naming matters as much as anything.

You see, I paid attention then despitemy face betraying boredom. Shakespeare, Homer,I read it all and found that you were right

insisting so. And now, I cannot helpbut see Odysseus on every sea,in every billowing sail I sight off shore.

The classics? They are dead now, stripped of allexcept their bones, the basic narratives.Console yourself with this: a foolish boy

keeps writing poems because of what you taughthim: "Landscapes are never only settings;they are the story, the only worthwhile story."

The ancient war continues. It never dies.