Nocturnal meandering

has brought me

to the back steps of time

where candles, red, blue and black melted in sacrifice to the angels who guided your footfall

still stain the once pure concrete of the back verandah.

The rum spilt in the names

of Gabriel, Michael

and I forget the names of the rest

still hangs heavy in the air.

On this October night

(A hard month to take),

with the full moon

hanging too low for comfort

I remember the argument

you had with a certain

Seville orange tree before

burning garbage at its root

and wonder

where were the angels

when the madness came?

- Zoyinka Blake Ricketts