Omerta

Crime scene

The trees take an edgy stance -
reaching up, and drawing down 
rain from the cloud’s belly
with lightning 
white and sharp 
like a knife
flashed before the eyes 
at midnight
on a dark street.

The leaves are huddled together,
crowded about the branches
with the blank and nondescript faces
of bystanders avoiding involvement –
happening to be there for some reason –
not giving names.

Now the street of the sky is emptying,
the thunder gutters out
leaving no trace,
letting silence fill the space of an event
no-one will remember clearly 
as day returns to secure the scene.

The sun asks sharp questions,
receiving no answer but the vague steam
vapouring off the hot tar,
evaporating from roads, roofs, 
and the slick silent trunks of the trees
ganged together.

They will not confess. 

They have sealed their conspiracy 
with the efficient wind,
watching it sweep away
the last evidence of cloud,
the faint stains of rainbow,
the final scraps of grey,
forgetting just one thing –


a single witness.