Persepectives
If I was a tropic bird I would know about the calls of my kin as I launch from my rocky perch,
unfolding angelic wings and soaring over the cliffs above Munden’s Point on a cushion of
salty updraft. My eyes scanning across the sparkling expanse of endless ocean to catch the
glint of silver baitfish before I dive vertically with red-beaked intent and aerobatic freedom.
If I was Napoleon stripped of my Imperial status and incarcerated in mind, body and spirit on
this lonely rock, like being cast adrift and left to gradually fade away. Standing in deep
contemplation looking past the beauty of the surging waves and the distant silver horizon,
longing for glory in battle, Parisian comforts, splendidly astride my tall, grey horse in mass
adoration – and impossible rescue.
If I was that young woman, black hair gleaming in the tropical sunshine as I scurry to catch
the community work bus, and whose friends have left on planes and yachts to find their
fortunes in the big wide world, I might imagine my own future elsewhere experiencing life on
the other side of the ocean full of endless possibilities.
If I was that old man who sits in silent contemplation staring at the beige walls, hearing the
clink of crockery and chatter as the nursing home tea round begins, I would long to be back
on that volcanic homeland where my memories are as sharply clear as those of my
boyhood. Running barefoot through the streets of Jamestown, sliding sideways down
Jacob’s Ladder, stomach growling in anticipation of Nana’s guava stew.