Southern Lies

They say the smoke has cleared away,
and the burnt out and gutted churches
have shiny brand new steeples now.
But the hate that lit the fire
still smolders in the hearts of those
who distrust all others of different race.

They say that segregation is gone,
outlawed and wiped away by bussing
and integration of public schools,
But the poorly funded public schools
play host to many black kids while
the private schools are filled with white.

They say the racial hate is of the past
and mixed neighborhoods are here to stay
and make nice under the capital dome
But when I walk in some neighborhoods
I am insulted for the color of my skin
and under threeat of death, am told to leave.

They say that things are better now
and try to sweep the pain of years long past
underneath the corner of the well worn rug.
But only when they stop the lies
and face the fact that hate runs deep
will yesterday’s wounds begin to heal.

I know how the unknown looks
When nobody’s watching
When the sands shift beneath only wind
And the ocean mirrors nothing:
Not light, not air, not waves,
Just the wind and the wild
Beneath gray skies

The shoreline is utterly altered after the storms
but summer is coming, we can get to the beach again.
Someone has partly restored the path that became a cliff
easing it into a soft hill of sand we can trudge down and up.
Others are here already, walking or fishing.

The waves come in now in opposing directions
turning on each other like the edge of half a whirlpool.
The shallows are all uneven; in places huge licks extend
reaching nearly to the foot of the cliff, in far beyond the rest.
This is a sea I don’t want to turn my back on.

But I do while I fossick for stones in the slush:
interesting shapes, beautiful colours, satisfying textures.
Here is a comma and here a heart. Some are marked with crosses
others circled by raised, contrasting rings. One is a pearl, translucent white,
others are black and smooth, shining like onyx.

Then everyone stops. We all stand still and gaze.
I’d heard two days ago there were whales about, seen
from the headland at Hastings Point, and now they are here
disporting themselves in leisurely ease, back behind the breakers,
cresting and diving, leaping and plunging.

A glimpse of graceful tail, a curving fin or a snout,
a sudden spume of white, a burst of foam. A silver glint
from the underside of a fin caught by the sun. And the sky vast,
pastel blue with long white feathery stripes of cloud stretching across.
The ocean sparkled, seeming to sing.

Sitting majestically
Lies a colonial and quaint
Cluster of buildings
After trekking up a slope
Peacefully surveying
Over the landscape
And the botanic gardens
Such lovely buildings
But such idiosyncrasies
Of having to climb up flights of stairs
And to connect to different parts
And then climb down flights of stairs
And ending up in no-through corridors
But never mind all that
It remains a lovely place
To be
Quirks and all.