After the rain had gone,
And glittering rain drops
Hung lingering, like diamonds
On Albert Park daffodils;
Beneath the rainbow,
The children of plenty
Came to play.

Hand in hand, their hair,
Like ripe wheat dancing
In the warm smiling sun;
Oh!
The cherubs of content played,
Like lambs frolicking
In the spring sun.

And they said to one standing by:
“Tell us a story;
Tell us that one
About what they do
To the black people
In your land;
Yes tell us an exciting story”.

Then his face darkened,
And the joy stole away
From his little face.
His eyes darted between them,
Searching . . .
But he saw no one;
Only stiff grey shadows
That neither heard
Nor saw him.

Then his lips quivered,
And speaking to the void
He cried . . .

Yet again you want me
To tell you a play story.
You want me to open my heart
And lay bare its deep scars
For you to fondle, and marvel
At the workmanship
That carved them.

Then you will twitter
Each to the other
About the beautiful scars
On my heart,
The art
Of a far off crime.

Afterwards
You will join hands
And merrily skip away
Between the flowers and the breeze
In your green meadows,
Rejoiced by my sad song,
And not thanking God
That you have no scars
On your hearts.

When the night comes
You will cuddle
In your mothers’ arms.
They will read you
Bed time stories about
Little Black Sambo
And you will gently dose away
Clutching your golliwogs:
Then the darkness
Will blot away
My story.

In the morning
The mist
Will cleanse your memory;
My story will become
Only a vague silence,
From a far off darkness;
And you will forget to be thankful
That the sun shines on you.

I alone will remain here
With my play story
On the dark side of the rainbow;
Betrayed