Monday, November 5, 2012

The Banyan Tree, Old Year's Night By Derek Walcott

In the damp park, no larger than a stamp,
The rainbow bulbs of the year's end are looped.
To link the withered fountain, and each lamp
flickers like echoes where small savages whooped.
The square was this town's center, but its spokes
burn like a petered pinwheel of dead streets,
Turning in mind the squibs of boyish jokes,
Candy-striped innocents and sticky sweets.
Soaring from littered roots, blackened with rain,
With inaccessible arms the banyan tree
Heavens in the year's last drizzle to explain.
What age could not, responsibility?

Banyan Tree