Sunday, 24 November 2013


She walks across the ticket hall
draped in black, clutching a framed photograph
Llke a shield.

The son who  never came home
smiles at strangers as if from a window
shut in her heart.

She ascends to the light,
bearing her mausoleum of silence,
walks to where the mourners stand.

There’s a place somewhere near the kerb
where he stood - guns with
the small dark mouths of birds, aiming.

Every day she sees the hand that held the gun,
severed and alone
smaller than her son’s, perhaps

Buttoning a shirt, turning a lock,
steering a wheel, lifting a cup,
holding a hand, waving.

She imagines fingers unhinging,
selecting a spoon.
The injustice of stirring tea. 

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