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An Abundance of Grey
Wears the prisoner’s world to rags
In his hour of sunlight
At eleven or four each day,
The sky is the smoke trail
Of his burnt fields and breaking heart
His old can of water
For bath and thirst and wash too small
To save a yam’s tendril
The awaited season of rain
Lies chained in the obscure
Rooms of law and justice,
Adjourned “sine die” till the being
Is free as corpse or beast.
By Ogaga Ifowodo
A winner of the Free Word Award of the Poets of All Nations Foundation
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