When the annals of Jamaica are written
the village of Bowens will be but a footnote;
overwhelmed by the tide of time and
relentless economic progress.
As life emerges from death,
so too did New Bowens, a housing scheme,
supplant the authentic old Jamaican village –
a dying way of life.
Sadly, we Jamaicans are not known for our
care of the Elders.
Too often we leave them for others to
anesthetized and euthanize.
Childless, John Bowen and his father, Charles
have no descendants to protest their passing.
Founders of a village, it was not enough;
for they now lie beneath a red mud lake;
remembered, perhaps, by the engineers who drowned them,
and by the former undergraduate who used their sad fate
to get another A, and who, remorseful, now writes this elegy.
They too, like their village, have been
consigned to history, a footnote.
Making foolish the notion of
achieving immortality without having children.
My friends, take heed. Our works do not always live on after us.