WAINE'S FARM.(Poem)

 
   This morning I flicked a caterpillar 
   off a cabbage leaf and watched it drop, 
   then sway in the air, hanging 
   by a silken thread. First grub 
   I've ever seen dance the Newgate hornpipe. 
   And I've lived through worse 
   than I care to tell. The sloeblack hold 
   of the Scarborough, tethered to Ryan. 
   His sweat mingling with my sweat. 
   Poor man. They broke his leg 
   in the irons and then his boils 
   festered until they swamped him. 
   Like what Master Caterpillar would do 
   to my cabbages, spreading his shit 
   and sticky webs, gorging himself, 
   fouling their very hearts. 
   Never enough victuals on the voyage out. 
   I only survived because of Ryan, 
   dying like that, and me keeping it quiet 
   for days so I could eat his rations. 
   Funny how it comes back. The master's lips 
   flecked with spittle. "Damn your eyes," 
   he yells, ...