Militia
Derek Walcott, 17 November 1983
“... I heard them marching the leaf-wet roads of my head, the sucked vowels of a syntax trampled to mud, a division of dictions, one troop black, barefooted, the other in redcoats bright as their sovereign’s blood. One fought for a queen, the other was chained in her service, but both, in bitterness, travelled the same road. Our occupation and the Army of Occupation are born enemies, but what mortar can size the broken stones of the barracks of Brimstone Hill to the gaping brick of Belfast? Have we changed sides to the moustached sergeants and the horsy gentry because we serve English, like a two-headed sentry guarding its borders? No language is neutral; the great oak of English is a murmurous cathedral where some took umbrage, some peace, but every shade, all, helped widen its shadow ... ”