Derek Walcott

Gnawing the highway’ s edges, its black mouth Hums quietly: ‘Home, come home …’ Behind its viscous breath the very word ‘growth’ Grows fungi, rot; White mottling its root. More dreaded   Than canebreak, quarry ,or sun – shocked gully – bed Its horrors held Hemingway’s hero rooted To sure, clear shallows.   It begins nothing….