The moon slides peeling the orange sun.
Seaward seagulls sign a truce of silence,
But cricket has not read the script
And bowls a babble to bats leaving crease
Stare not at tongues of flame and cry.
I do not burn nor did I die.
I am the blessed breeze that blows
The precious pearl that holds its glows;
‘Boys in blue' finger triggers sights on blacks.
Guilt perceived, slaps the face of innocence
With a white hand. ‘Bobbies' bay for black blood
And the air drifts like smoke with the smell
Midnight. Shadows slip over the horizon
While boats sleep like babes silently as a mime.
Green water wears a charcoal gown
Rubbing ribs gently muttering
Heaven has but hell to vanquish;
Earth is stiff without a care,
And, like shrivelled shrubs the homeless
Live in heaps of flaking fear.