turned flooded bath?
will anyone be happy again, smile
again, laugh again? has all the gay
gone from the world? or will
it land in our midst, a giant dragon
with expansive tail bending love around
the mountain?
out of the mouths
1.
On a Paris street,
in a morning walk, they stop
to talk to the camera:
Papa, I am scared.
Of what, my child?
Of the angry people
and their angry guns—what if
they come back again?
Then we will lay more flowers,
my child; we will always
have more flowers.
2.
In a home Down Under,
on the way to slumber, they stop
for a pressing question:
Mum, what will happen
when there is no more room?
No more room for what,
my child? What if—
there is no more room for all
the bodies, to put them when
they need rest?
Then we will dig deeper,
my child, we will find
a way to go deeper still.
3.
In an ancient never ending story,
Ramah wails again; lamentation
covers the bodies, bomb-dust
and fire smoke, stifling cover, suffocation,
smother—
Rachels kneel unseen among the stones,
in the fallen shell-shocked ruins
of life made empty; Rachels
who will not be consoled, refuse
flowers for the burden grief will lay
upon them, must lay within
them, deeper, so much
deeper than humans ought to dig.
There are no streets, no graves, no
children asking what if—
only Rachels’ weeping1 turning
dust to restless mud.
1. “A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.” (Jeremiah 31:15; cf. also Matthew 2:18)
Sing on
An ode to Manchester. 23.05.17
Petals bled their white
and red, from roots
buried deep under hearth
of home; but the Song
outgrew the Roses.
Streets and theatres burst
exploding from a spark
buried not so far from hearth
and home; but the Song
drowned out the Blitz.
City centre blast
to rubble, the cord
buried within the hearth
of home; but the Song
outlasted the Troubles.
Small shadows flicker
light eclipsed, the switch
buried by the hearth
of home; but the Song
will outshine Terror.
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