Classic Poem

I see her on a lonely forest track,
— Her level brows made salient by the sheen
— Of flesh the hue of cinnamon. The clean
Blood of the hunted, vanished Arawak
Flows in her veins with blood of white and black.
— Maternal, noble-breasted is her mien;
— She is a peasant, yet she is a queen.
She is Jamaica poised against attack.

Her woods are hung with orchids; the still flame
— Of red hibiscus lights her path, and starred
— With orange and coffee blossoms in her yard.
Fabulous, pitted mountains close the frame.
— She stands on ground for which her fathers died;
— Figure of savage beauty, figure of pride.