A touch of the sun

There are some men with wide faces
and silence
I see them on television
or Paddington balconies
see them at night
under the sour lamps
of Bayswater Road
coloured men or
black as the shirt on a fascist back
and time as tough as the leather
on our boots
stretches like a washing line
under the span
of a coloured sky

the same sweat of sun or lust
leaves children
of love or accident
they are fallen like strange flowers
from the great womb of desire
and violence
whether from ear or revenge
brings a dark gun into their hands

the same death rapes us all
for god
comes like silver lightning
as man condemns man
in charity
the profession of the priests
or justice
the profession of the educated
whilst we are retreating
retreating as usual with violence
afraid of our own face
in the African dark
afraid of our own harvest
afraid of the wake of dead
we leave after rebellion
afraid our children might
be colour blind
history is making fools of us again