Derek Walcott

MIDSUMMER, TOBAGO 

Broad sun-stoned beaches. 

White heat. 
A green river. 

A bridge, 
scorched yellow palms 

from the summer-sleeping house 
drowsing through August. 

Days I have held, 
days I have lost, 

days that outgrow, like daughters, 
my harbouring arms.

by Derek Walcott