Sunday, 30 August 2015

Seventy one murdered


The bastards said we'd soon be free
     while fire fell from the sky
I cower and imagine how
     I'll watch my children die
With rescue gone the time has come
     to take the risk and fly:
A man explains the fare

Beneath the furtive night it seems
     the price may be too high
The journey's blurring hours stretch
     this agonised goodbye
Until a bolting door explains
     the driver's frozen lie:
There is insufficient air

On Thursday you were late again
     you had no reason why
You moaned about a colleague and
     the weather made you sigh
You drifted through the motes until
     the splinter beamed your eye:
The grace that has you here,
                           not there