The coming storm

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 Fergusson.

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.