Highfield, Jamaica

by Frank Blake

Is the beauty here just on the boundaries?

Where the ocean gives up, confronted by the weight of infinite grains

An hourglass exploded

On the inside, commerce, and the crumbling caribbean concrete of strife and stress

Roadside shacks and the capitalist backwater of black market necessity

Here, dark rum and bright beaches and the old woman’s trash burning in a Parish beyond the
rolling leafy hills

Clues to the tin drum truth, past the Rasta phoniness of five-star reviews and urgent tourist
relaxation.

The beauty is all around, or wherever you look for it.