• A selection of poems



On our last morning we take coca-tea early

in Confiteria Elis

on the Avenue of the Sixteenth of July.

The thin air of a high altitude dawn

and the peeled light make the world seem new.

Ayamaras from Tiahuanaco

are arriving for the market on Avenue Bolivar.

An unsophisticated people,

whose ancestors were found by the Incas

living among ruins they could no longer explain.

They have bags full of chickens,

foetal llamas, squealing piglets,

simmering buckets of creamy grubs.

Last night our sleep was disturbed again.

With the full moon’s rising

a drug plane came in low over the trees

to the south of Marsh Harbour.

There was the drone on and on of an unlit boat

somewhere between Salt Cay and the horizon.

Martin Edwards

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