Grey skies weep as rumours run along the streets
What once were murmurs hung on Angel Oak tree
Became hollers in cotton fields carried by winds
Praising the Lord skinning mules shucking corn
Blue notes they howled for water, food and repose.

Grey skies weep as rumours run along the streets
They sang promises of freedom to Mistreated Mamas
Said Worried Now, Won’t Be Worried Long yet hundred
And fifty-five years gone the melody is silenced
By the tyrant’s forty lashes hindering the singer’s breath.

Grey skies weep as rumours run along the streets
There are no more songs to be sang only ire
Though rum won’t buy the martinet a slave a uniform
Allows a man to take a life, indignant Humanity cries
A daughter loses her father and will never know why.

The worn-out whip is rotten, overused, abused
Rumours from the streets resonate as lashes on black skin
They echo across the seven seas thundering sadness reach
The squares of every city, ears confined to apartments
Breaking lockdown rules unwanting us to breathe to scream.

The worn-out whip is rotten, overused, abused
Rumours from the streets sound familiar it hails in June
They whisper names I recognise as mine they pour
Like frozen rain bruising my body Trayvon, Michael and Tamir,
Eric, Atatiana, Alton, Breonna, George, and alas many more.

The worn-out whip is rotten, overused, abused
Rumours from the streets have turned into prayers entreating
To shed once and for all the blinding white mask enchaining us,
For brothers and sisters to reunite and realise we carry
One and only name, Humanity. For You are I and I am You

And none of us can breathe if one of us can’t.

[Featured photo: Angel Oak, John’s Island, SC. by Daniela Duncan]