The Island

by John Wyatt
copyright 2002


T'was midnight on the ocean,
Not a streetcar was in sight.
The waves were rolling gently
In the stormy noonday light.
A lonely soaring Albatross
Is swimming through the deep,
As schools of silver fishes,
Stroll across the street.
When Lo!  Off in the distance,
With barren shore and hills,
A lushly green-clad island,
So near, the eye it fills.
The land is low and flat,
As a huge towering mass,
While barefoot boys with shoes on
Are running through the grass.
The sky so clear, the air so clean,
So still with howling breeze,
As many brown-skinned white men
Are fishing in the trees.
As we leave this island paradise,
With sun so darkly bright,
We look behind in front of us
And calmly say "Good Night."