Review of the Situation Facing Artisanal Fishworkers at the Beginning of the 21st Century

Hangs its drapes windless, stuns mirrors

Till reflections lack substance.
Some sound like the gnashing of windmills ground

To a dead halt;

A deafening absence, a blow.
It hoops this valley, weighs this mountain,

Estranges gesture, pushes this pencil

Through a thick nothing now,
Freights cupboards with silence, folds sour laundry

Like the clothes of the dead left exactly

As the dead behaved by the beloved,
Incredulous, expecting occupancy.

--- Derek Walcott