Treachery

There is an Englishman dying
somewhere, his face now terminal grey,
soon the pallor of coolness and oblivion's
equality, whether darkness or flying
with his wanton dreams by his side.

Worthy he is, remembered too
down here displaced by history's bleach;
though moons at night and the colours at daylight stay.
A hundred years flit from the screen in his mind,
his birth now a meaningless hope.

Last thoughts will be of suns rising
out there and beyond in his old grace.
Young gunfighters for decent sorts back in the day,
place their cross in the box and hold their heads high.
He dies as the fascists arrive.