My grandfather

I sometimes think about what my grandfather must have gone through. A man who died before I was even part of a world far, far different to the one he'd experienced.

What would it have been like, under that scorching sun, worshipping the enriched red soil that was his lot? A soil which brought forth food to put on the table. No need for money. Only muscles. And an iron will to survive and ensure your children did likewise.

Posessions? Not many. There was always his dwelling of course. Built nearer to the well than to the church because the former had to be visited every day. Inside, a bed, chairs, a table, pots and pans, a jug to fetch water. Outside, a lemon tree and a fig tree. Certainly a vine over the veranda. And chickens. And a donkey. Possessions for living. No need for more.

What else? A new suit to wear in church made by the village tailor in exchange for three month's supply of the season's fruit and vegetables. Oh and perhaps some paper and a pencil for sketching on the Sabbath, after church released and before sleep could recapture him. Sketches of skyscrapers and bridges. Visions brought by the travelling cinema.

And on one of these bits of paper a poem of my grandfather, in the vernacular. Transcribed for posterity by the village school teacher, over a coffee, in the village coffee shop. A poem composed by my grandfather in the fields. Over days. During moments when the wondrous part of his mind was able to disengage from the beast of burden.

I can see him even now, as the sweat dripped from his brow, mulling over each word until its impact was maximised. Poems that spoke of the meaningless trap in which he and his fellow villagers were caught, and how best to escape it. If only for a while. Through dance and wine, laughter and song and each other. Though not God. No, not in his day. Not now he'd learnt skyscrapers grew from the land. Created by man. Not now he knew he could never get close to them or the world they symbolised. Not really. What use God if all this could be achieved by man?

Posessions? There was also his children of course. But my grandfather's generation was the first to start realising that children weren't really possessions. They'd soon be off doing their on thing. Away from the village. Away even from the island. The world was changing.

Maybe they'd come closer to better days.