The coming storm
hides the sun
though it may still shine
in the beyond.
Mistrust becomes argument
become rows
become skirmishes
become battles
becomes war
as the clouds
of disillusionment
build their battlements
in the streets
of Ferguson.
Looted of the high ground,
plundered and raped
by stormtrooping opportunists,
the abandoned souls,
hands in the air
shout ‘don’t shoot’
for we are the poor.
We are the poor,
we are not black,
we are the colourless poor
with no axes to grind.
A powerful and apposite work ; the final stanza of which is perhaps an epitaph for our times.
” We are the poor,
we are not black,
we are the colourless poor
with no axes to grind. “