(Our latest guest poet is the wonderful Marie Lightman, a amazing poet from the North East England and besides married to Ira Lightman who needs no introduction, also currently is running https://marielightmanpromptresponse.wordpress.com/ where she is currently deliver a prompt a day for a year)
Brooks knew something was wrong
About the massacre
At the train station
Before he even arrived,
Monumenting the sunlight
As in a tombstone
Suddenly slammed shut
When he stepped out of his car
Portraiting the chaos in his mind
Only hours before
With a subway wrapper
Dangling out of his pocket
And his inspector’s badge
Almost dragging itself back to his car
When he left to examine the body
As in a panic stricken protest
Summasing the evidence
In a few seconds
Of half ripped ears and fingers
Stitched into jigsaws
Glimmering half in and out
Of the shadows round the back
Of the coach station
And before the start of the village
Hauling tragedy all the way
Towards the canal
Washed in a deep velveteen
Of sorry filled faces
Floating across his eyesight
Full well knowing
Who this was
And there was precious
Little he could
Ivy, crispy with ice
I step off the path into
the empty manor's garden.
Marble grave stones, overgrown.
I shiver. Who buries their dead
so close to where they sleep?
I crouch to read lichen
smothered words. Finger
spell single letters, trace
John and year of death, 1825.
Glance up and see you through cold breath,
you wear a cloth hat, beaten jacket and
face grey, tinged with ash, like a snow sky.
You bend, as if to weed, then stop frame.
I scream, in my head. “Look up! There
is a child who isn't meant to be here.” Look
at me, I breathe, you fail too.
Eventually, but through unseeing eyes you do.
This is too much for me and I run.
@ Marie Lightman