Analyzing 'XXIII' by Derek Walcott

With the stampeding hiss and scurry of green lemmings, midsummer's leaves race to extinction like the roar of a Brixton riot tunneled by water hoses: they seethe towards autumn's fire—its in their nature, being men as well as leaves, to die for the sun. The leaf stems tug at their chains, the branches bending like Boer cattle under Tory whips that drag every wagon nearer to apartheid. And, for me, that closes the child's fairy tale of an antic England—fairy rings, thatched cottages fenced with dog roses, a green gale lifting the hair of Warwickshire. I was there to add some color to the British theater. "But the blacks can't do Shakespeare, they have no experience." This was true. Their thick skulls bled with rancor when the riot police and the skinheads exchanged quips you could trace to the Sonnets, or the Moor's eclipse. Praise had bled my lines white of any more anger. and snow had inducted me into white fellowships. while Calibans howled down the barred streets of an empire that began with Caedmon's raceless dew, and is ending In the alleys of Brixton, burning like Turner's ships.