For the Bishop of Namibia

you are standing in the sun

light of Windhoek,

white as the stone walls of

the cathedral.

twenty-one black men stand

with you.

the bells ring and trees watch

silently,

taking note of your names.

somewhere they will be reported.

only in England is the sky grey,

without seams.

here it is hot—burning with

electricity

on the fingertips and tongues.

here the shadows are sharp

and black,

cut deeper than the soil.

their urine soaked wounds

are your own.

today you stand in the sun