The Bateleur's Beak

Blinded eyes are a silken
white. We look away
cold with closing hands,
apathetic to the fray.

Underneath the sands
no fueling river runs,
despite the raging onslaught
no saviour ever comes.

Black and silence stained,
a red and curving blade,
the Bateleur's beak is over
all and scorning any aid.

The veins beneath the surface
are empty and collapsed.
Their poison cargo carried
Harare's pulse has lapsed.

The Coming Of The Season

From the new sprigs of justice baubles hang:
a glittering mockery.
In the square the people stand and sing.
A Row of tents on the cold concrete pitched:
a useless protest: their ears are stitched.

Churchill stands over, double breasted
sheet metal, leaning on his stick.
The wind curls around as mint.
George Canning stands at the back
his stone cloak billowing black.

The tall iron fence: impassable.
The golden rivulets of parliament
sneer out through the pointed onyx.
To decorate this unreachable place:
the coming of the season
and the end of reason.

On The Pavement Lies

The streets are paved with gold,
so runs the old cliché.
The bankers sit in affluence
counting up their pay.
Bright red buses filled to burst
with workers on their way:
smiling people in the race,
and gaining every day.

The cliché's split and bent,
with the city all but spent;
Ii the ashes children play.

The streets aren't paved with gold
they're worn and cracked and cold;
there is nothing more to say.