White and still
His masters have become the politicians,
hiding their old medals in the dark.
They’ve grown so fat on light,
they cannot tell the present from the past.
He remembers the days of secret glory:
the nights of grey,
the nights of prey,
the silent killings and the public trials.
The streets were filled with broken dreams
of pride and dignity and freedom.
There were so many stones to throw
at each and every nervous shadow.
The holy hunt:
who the keeper,
who the poacher -
who is game?
The safe-houses and spy-holes,
the broken codes and secret bones,
the ethics of the nether world
his masters have abandoned
for talk-shows and biographies,
for pondering statesmanship
and banquets with old enemies,
suddenly so well-respected.
They wear the coats of good old boys
or bashful intellectuals.
They talk to anyone who pays
or pays lip-service to respect.
The old spy dreams of years gone by.
The spider’s legs,
once black and busy,
now are white and still.