MARLEY IN THE MORNING

Some mornings I sit in the silence of the valley, hearing only the waves hitting the beach, or the dull roar of a light rain in the forested hills. Sometimes I select some music — varied, but gentle, to harmonize with the setting. Sometimes Mozart, sometimes Mungal, but this morning, I chose Marley: “Legend — The Best of Bob Marley and the Wailers”.

So, alone on the verandah, facing where Grande Riviere meets the sea and the dark forested mountain, the ridge outlined more by the stars above than by actually seeing the mountain. There are no buildings on this hillside which separates Grande Riviere from Sans Souci, so there are no lights to be seen.

Marley caresses my solitude with Is This Love, and then the haunting No Woman No Cry as the coffee awakens my senses and I search the sky with my binoculars — for what? As he moves to Could You Be Loved, the night view binoculars allow me to trace the line of the ridge. At the highest point a large, lone silk cotton tree stands. In the dry season its branches reach out like fingers, but now, covered in leaves, it is a large solid club standing on top the mountain.

The blackness begins to lighten to dark grey. Twin towers of cloud rise above and beyond the mountain. As The Wailers sing Three Little Birds, I watch the first early corbeaux push off from another tree, to begin their slow spiralling glide down to the beach. “Hardly ‘Little Birds’” I tell myself, but as the music changes to Buffalo Soldier, I find it somehow more appropriate — silent, dark birds against a dark, dark sky.

Smoke from a campfire upstream hangs in the valley, above the silent river — slowly becoming visible, reflections showing in its dark waters. The twin cloud towers are higher now, as they drift closer to me. Get Up, Stand Up, Stand Up for Your Rights. The towers stand to each side of the Silk Cotton tree, their leading faces grey, their edges whitening, brightening as they approach. Stir It Up, and colours are arriving, with the coming dawn.

Between the cloud towers, rays of sunlight — great beams in the morning mist — reach upward and outward, to create the first touch of blue high in the morning sky. A humming bird is out, feeding on the Purple Petrea below the verandah — but both bird and flowers are still silhouettes in the dark below me. One Love makes my heart sing as the cloud towers drift ever closer, pulling the dawn behind them. The towers are tightly packed clouds, so they create a stark effect, solid white columns now, against a pinkish yellow sky.

Get Ready, Marley sings, and I await the spectacle of the sun rising over the ridge. As the towers pass, it is I Shot the Sheriff, and the mountaintop is aglow, afire, all the glorious rays reaching up to the brightening blue sky — where have the stars gone?

There are clouds in the distance now, appearing above and beyond the sun, and they are bright orange — Immortelle!! The sun is almost here. But wait! It’s going to rise right behind the crowning silk cotton tree on the hilltop. So I wait as Marley sings Waiting In Vain, for this impending phenomenon — the Cosmos lining up with nature on the mountaintop between Sans Souci and Grande Riviere. The melancholy single notes on the guitar — then

“Oh the pirates, yes they rob I

Sold I to the merchant ships

Minutes after they take I

From the bottomless pit.”

Now I cannot see the silk cotton tree again — the sun is there behind it, too bright to look into.

“But my head was made strong

By the han’ of the Almighty

Forwarding this generation

Tri - umph - ant - ly.”

Slowly the daylight reaches down into the valley, dark shapes getting colour, as if touched by a magic want, and life responding as birds begin to sing.

“Won’t you help to sing

These songs of freedom

Cause all I ever have

Redemption songs: Redemption songs.”

The humming bird has floated up to my left. A dark silhouette no longer, it now flashes emerald laser beams at me.

“Emancipate yourself from mental slavery

None but ourselves can free our minds

Have no fear for atomic energy

Cause none of them can stop the times.”

On the ground below the big, blue crabs are coming to the edge of their holes — cautiously; and with good reason. A large black hawk glides in, settling on a tree branch, to wait.

“How long shall they kill our prophets

While we stand aside and look? Whew!

Some say it’s just a part of it

We’ve got to fulfil the book.”

The hawk pushes off the branch, and swooping to the ground, snatches a crab, and with a flurry of wing-beats, bird and prey return to the branch, the crab fulfilling his book. A rooster crows, another answers it — Songs of Freedom. A flock of green parrots abandon a tree across the river, flying towards me, a cacophony of shrieks as they pass, flashing in the bright morning sun — their Songs of Freedom. I look back to the mountaintop. The sun has risen above the silk cotton, and I can see the tree again.

For a moment I think the sun will rise behind the distant cloud, now white instead of pink. The cloud drifts northwards, trailing a light veil of rain. A mocking bird warbles beautifully — Songs of Freedom. A church bell rings — dawn has come to Grande Riviere. It’s Sunday, August 1st 2004 — Emancipation Day.

“Won’t you help to sing

These songs of freedom

Cause all I ever have

Redemption songs, redemption songs, redemption …”

This was written, “live and on location”, two years ago. This just seems a good time to share it with you this week. One Love!