The Clammy Cherry Tree
I, myself, and me are drifting —
The small boat is flat with no mast or tiller,
Hopefully without tilting
We will reach our island home Anguilla.
I dream of cornkies, fried jacks, bush teas,
Cornmeal-porridge, pigtail in soup with pigeon peas,
Gooseberries, sloes, prickly pears,
Tamarinds, so tart yet sweet
Pomserrets, sherries — to many to eat.
Barefoot I run around trying to recapture my youth.
Seaside grapes, coco plums, the pope cactus pink fruit.
Tears start as I pass the old Anguillan Building,
I picture Miss Marjorie measuring material, and cutting.
A little farther on, passing the North Side road,
Is the library that enriched our minds with its many books.
I remember librarians, Mrs. Sally Lake,
Mrs. Countess Rey, and Miss Audrey Brooks.
Still standing is that stately, walled in house ‘The Woodbine’
Its owners must have been aristocrats at one time.
I shriek with excitement, and clap my hands with glee
I become a young girl again with what I see —
Bowing down with fruit is ‘The Clammy Cherry Tree’.
With my excited shriek I wake myself from my dream
Now how do I get back to sleep, and continue in that theme?
Forty-five years ago I left Anguilla, and l still miss you even in my sleep,
Thank you for the many memories I can give away — yet keep.
Ermine C. Adams-Plotkin
March 8th, 2015
