heritage

To my lost heritage

By Mostyn B. Habu

Alas, you pitiful old bones, By your own seeds unknown, Scorched, drenched, endured, Lifeless, helpless, cruelly defaced.

The clouds of Estralla Bay With lightning and thunder herald The tide of a surging flood.

Alas, old bones lie stranded.

The sands of Point Cruz trembled, The palms of Nukapu blooded, The heavens rang abroad, Wonder of incarnated awe.

A son from his mother torn, His father first to have gone, Upon the bones a shadow cast, The shadow of a stranger.

A Santa Ana (Solomons) canoe paddle (decorative).