George in Georgetown, Guyana,
Aged ninety and no longer counting.
Out early mornings and early evenings,
Blocked off entire hours from
12 to 4 for rest in his air-conditioned
Pad, and who could blame him?
Noon bakes bitumen soft
As a cookie pulled from an oven.

Some say Guyanese wood yields
To the artist's chisel twice:
First thing in the morning,
And last thing at night;
In between the two the blade
May break or the wood spoil
Any shape an artist tries to coax
From it no matter how gentle
The tap, tap, tap, for wine,
Gum, milk, for the next line.

George was born in Georgetown,
City made of wood whose famous,
Large, wooden Cathedral keeps
Cool all day, just as wood shields
Any shape, there for the asking,
In the language chisels speak,
But never in the middle of the day;
George knew this as the Guyanese way.