Epitaph

They hanged him on a clement morning, swung

between the falling sunlight and the women's

breathing like a black apostrophe to pain.

All morning while the children hushed

their hopscotch joy and the cane kept growing

he hung there sweet and low.

At least that's how

they tell it. It was long ago

and what can we recall of a dead slave or two

except that when we punctuate our island tale

they swing like sighs across the brutal sentences,

and anger pauses

till they pass away.

—Dennis Scott (On Peepal Tree Press)