Caliban watched the ship sail east. He could see

that the butler and the jester, who used to beat

and mock him, seemed already to be drunk.

Prospero was in the prow of the ship,

and had turned his back on the island.

Miranda, the magician’s kindly daughter,

waved briefly, shyly, surreptitiously.

 

***

 

He had stayed, watching, until the pennant

at the top of the main mast disappeared,

and then had felt suddenly alone, free.

The island became his again, silent

except for the rising and falling of the tides,

and the leaves in summer, and winter’s storms.

Sometimes he thought of his mother sent there

from across the ocean, pregnant with him.

He would dream occasionally of Miranda,

waking, imagine her voice. Though now there was

no one to hear him, he still spoke poetry.

 

***

 

Meanwhile, in Milan, Prospero engaged

a map maker to complete his manuscript

‘Isle of Banishment and Promise’ – and scribes

to make copies for posterity,

and as gifts for his fellow nobles.

In time the map was studied by merchants

throughout Italy, Spain, and Portugal.

 

***

 

One morning, some years later, Caliban

saw a sail on the horizon, and hid.

The ship anchored, and two longboats came ashore.

There were men dressed in steel with swords, and others,

in long black robes, holding some sort of

wooden instrument: a long upright

with a short cross-piece nailed to it – like the one

Prospero had cursed him with. On the deck,

in chains, were men and women weeping.

Their skin was black like his.