Jamaica

Where All The Rivers Run    
      
‘Twas God’s Hands left a piece of clay      
              When He created earth.      
              But no one knew its worth      
Until it swelled along the bay      
              One bright and splendid morn:      
              That’s how my land was born.      
     
No fairer isle have eyes beheld,      
              Columbus made his boast,      
              Comparing coast to coast;            
None with such beauty appareled—      
              A wood and water place            
              Encircled by God’s grace.      
     
Blue Mountain Peak and Hardwar Gap,      
               Majestic Dolphin Head,      
               Wild Cockpit trails, where tread      
Stark memories of Maroon traps,      
              Plunders of pirate trade,      
              And tales of river maids.      
     
Deep Rio Grande Valley rains,      
             Salt River manatees,      
             Kite boys wooing the breeze;      
Fields of delightful sugarcanes,      
            Ripe mango summertime,      
            Sweet john-tu-whits in rhyme.      
     
Grandest of Anglophone delights      
             Embraced by Carib spray;      
             Mouthwatering entrée      
For penchants unappeased by sights      
            Void of Jamaican zing—      
            A panoramic fling,      
     
Where all the world quests for escape      
          To seasons in the sun;      
          Where all the rivers run      
In poets’ veins and dancers’ shapes;      
          Where all the musics blend      
          And hopes all fears transcend.      
     
Resilient in times of strife,      
          Stitched by no trifling pride,      
          Hemmed in on every side,      
A people with a zest for life,      
          Pressed low but fighting back.      
          God’s Hands left here no lack.      
     
© Copyright 2019 May 16      
by Clyve A. Bowen♫