Weather Knives – Henry Shears

Refused to yield,

and the stars were burning hot.

Night was foggy, and the moon was hiding.

His white, elderly hands

held the centre of gravity.

Obsessively he anchored himself

in the muddied egos and bleeding knives.

Somebody was shouting that the story

was a big fake.

The pardon will not work. Death was

still sleeping. They were searching

the saboteur when the sun went down.

Winds were in coma.

The ink rolled back from the warrant.

Two faces of pain, right and wrong,

fear and agony, all were him.

He had nothing to hide, nothing to declare.

Walked away in the high tide

in raining abuses, in hurting slogans,

and found his past, buried deep

in the ravines, where only the echo comes back.