Rust encrusted iron,
tumble-weed beside the briney quay,
unclanking as if asleep,
an orgy of yellows and browns
still entwined like lovers
as if all the loves in the world
were linked and silent.
Or are these the thoughts
as yet unthought,
or deeds as yet undone,
chaotic in their ‘un’ness ?
A messy frenzy of undoing
which cannot be undone,
or the doing which weighs heavy
as Marley’s sins
with the ghosts of Christmas past
Are these the promises of change,
which never disembark
in the journey to democracy,
because the foundry of their birth
carries its own leprosy ?
Or are these simply redundant chains
whose untested strength diminishes,
in the passing of weather,
like the shedding of Samson’s hair ?