Christening

Remembrance of bygone days

have the smell of dusk-rain

the smell of sun-washed sea-waves

the summer sun that wept red

behind the tattered purple hills

of ageless sorrows

hidden in the voice of their roots

when I left my woman

and walked the streets

alone at twenty.

A helpless old man

lay sprawled beside the water-front

with twenty bullet holes in his body.

The spell-bound sky arched westwards

with cool early storm-clouds

somewhat like the day

clouds of protest gathered in my hair.

that was the day I came across I

and was christened protector of the weak

in his inn.