Revolution

From mountain strongholds in the north 
we stream south beneath a darkness of trees.
The capital glitters on the bay like a tiara.
Cocooned in history and gun emplacements, 
the governor dines alone.
Later, nodding over reports, 
the first shot sounds like a servant’s muffled cough.

The signal is lit: sad rockets burst over the bay.
Prisons empty; secret police and spies gavotte in black.
Beggars and the moneyed classes 
paw through waterfront rummage stalls 
for a suit of secrets, 
their perfect getaway.
In the alcoholic space between siding and sidewalk, 
suburban windows, shuttered and cruel, 
give asylum to whispers and portents, 
while the sullen painted lawn 
quietly advances the first pawn 
of its lovingly-calibrated revenge, 
a clockwork of knives. 

Far, far, far, 
in the deeps of limber childhood, 
below the stair of stars, 
old men bowl and sip plum water; 
these cupped hands brim with years. 

© Larry Haworth 2017