We going Country they said.

Down Deep South Trinidad

in search of Grandmummy roots.

Come to find crabgrass and troops

of chickens prancing and preening

on Guerrero land like victors of a war.

Foul-smelling turkeys mumbled and trembled,

wrinkled and miserable like haggish landlords,

where the wooden house used to stand.

On this road, La Lune Road, Grandmummy

chatter patois with Moruga women

and then listen out for her Daddy broken

Spanish flicking at the sea breeze. She bathe

her sandy skin and watch for Venezuela

mountains when the tide low

at the beach just a stone-throw away.

Today I could see Venezuela

and on the shore all the oil-black corbeaux

quarrelling with their wings.