On the seventh day of the twelfth month 
2023, at the National Maritime Museum, a minute 
since the break began, I wish the woman in my class 
would not look at her phone, tell us you are gone, 
leaving this behind – a chill that traps 
the room when freedom is our aim – to write 
that poetry can open prison doors. Your voice was key 
to that great task, Brummie to your core 
with a prophet’s force, labelled worthless by police 
when only a young man, growing strong enough 
with words to decline an OBE, your stated aim 
to bring empire down – rhythm and not guns, 
rhymes instead of bombs. 

We fill the break with Is it true? Perhaps 
a dreadful hoax, checking every phone, the chill
ten minutes long – seeing it writ large, 
your birth date and your death. 

Now the class must share a poem – 
Langston Hughes alive again – Freedom 
will not come… through compromise and fear. 
But the man who reads this out in a gentle voice 
has to stop, contain his tears the day that you are gone.