Chillin’ and Grillin’ in Oistins - Diane Scantlebury

Flames flare high into the pitch Oistins night
On the barbeque fragrant fish are grillin’,
By a hut in the icebox stacked like sentries on guard
The beers are cool and chillin’,

Between the rows of plastic chairs and tables
The waiter slides and glides,
Working each one with his swagger and sweet walking,
Saving most of his attention for the orders of pretty girls
As he tries to smooze them with his charm and sweet talking,

Like a pasha surrounded by his giggling harem
His offensive becomes a tightening belt,
He prizes the caps from their now ‘beastly’ cold beers
Flashing an icy white smile that the sun couldn’t melt,

Acrid, the flames that flare from the grill
Billowing in clouds, smoking and choking,
The young girls shield their noses with their hands
To cover their embarrassment,
As the waiter goads and teases them with his joking,

Hungry, the girls ponder on what has become of their food
The charmer has gone, they’re no longer chillin’,
Flames leap even higher into the pitch Caribbean night
While on the barbeque forgotten, burnt fish are still grillin’.

Diane Scantlebury