The rebel is all shield and sword,
you are all flesh and feet.
Already dead in this old Europe.
A road of neon dirt grows
towards a checkpoint.
An Acholi soldier laughs
in hyena soliloquy.
Blood and wine from hills
are filled with dying. Nixon
knew about Africa’s problem.
Acacia trees whisper and disappear.
A moonless night hides its face.
The line of you does not move.
Cautious of how time and light
can be a revelation, you move
towards a twilight away from the city
that is no longer home or hiding place.
The blood of one man against a soldier,
against a clan, against the caravan of men,
against the flash of fire, against teeth and tongue.
1 June 2016