Although they are an occupied nation
and their only border is an inland one
they yield to nobody in their belief
that the country is an island.
Somewhere in the far north, in a region
every native thinks of as 'the coast',
there lies the mountain of the shifting names.
The occupiers call it Cape Basalt.
The Sun's Headstone, say farmers in the east.
Drunken westerners call it The Orphan's Tit.
To find out where he stands the traveller
has to keep listening – since there is no map
which draws the line he knows he must have crossed.
Meanwhile, the forked-tongued natives keep repeating
prophecies they pretend not to believe
about a point where all the names converge
underneath the mountain and where (some day)
they are going to start to mine the ore of truth.
II
In the beginning there was one bell-tower
which struck its single note each day at noon
in honour of the one-eyed all-creator.
At least, this was the original idea
missionary scribes record they found
in autochthonous tradition. But even there
you can't be sure that parable is not
at work already retrospectively,
since all their early manuscripts are full
of stylized eye-shapes and recurrent glosses
in which those old revisionists derive
the word island from roots in eye and land.
III
Now archaeologists begin to gloss the glosses.
To one school, the stone circles are pure symbol;
to another, assembly spots or hut foundations.
One school thinks a post-hole in an ancient floor
stands first of all for a pupil in an iris.
The other thinks a post-hole is a post-hole. And so on–
like the subversives and collaborators
always vying with a fierce possessiveness
for the right to set 'the island story' straight.
IV
The elders dream of boat-journeys and havens
and have their stories too, like the one about the man
who took to his bed, it seems, and died convinced
that the cutting of the Panama Canal
would mean the ocean would all drain away
and the island disappear by aggrandizement.
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