Even your name is ancient:
Eleutheria, home of adventurers,
refuge for men seeking freedom for faith.
You were settled by conscience. Your Bogues,
your Bluffs, your Harbours, Sounds, Currents,
all ring with evangelical sureness. No burning of grounds,
no scrubbing of hills, just this knowledge: Eleuthera
means free.
…………………..And freedom means this: history
breathes memory across the mind, stirring
voices of the ancestors, peopling the bluffs and cliffs
that greet the ferry. It glistens neat upon the roofs,
the gables, quoins and porches, homes of wood and stone
that lobster built in Spanish Wells. It rolls the ferry
port and starboard, slaps twin keels, and creams the water
where ocean meets sea around the points and heads;
it chatters from the houses banked upon the hill
that is Harbour Island.
………………………………..It lets you take a water-taxi free.
But on the rocks by the mainland ferry dock, six ancient sheep
scavenge and wait, like history.


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