Seven silent monoliths,
brown, blue, scuffed and battered,
standing side by side in dangerous grass,
A crawling cortege
files alongside the raping embrace
of metal strangers;
all eyes away from the cases.
Glances, drawn to glass-strewn,
jagged, residue of a careless second,
from this snailing train of imposed reverence.
Seven silent wombs,
encapsulators of treasured things:
neatly stacked tee-shirts (freshly washed),
an inflatable dinghy with two patches
clasping last years beach shoes
in prolonged embrace,
spare cash secreted in white socks,
the postcard list,
two special bedtime cuddlies.
Who will be without a postcard this summer ?
Which of the cuddlies is orphaned
along with the expectations and excited intentions
that are broken, scarred,
Who will claim these seven monuments
to demolished anticipation,
after the sirens have faded
into the pastel exhaust
of a “special” weekend ?
(written after seeing the wreckage of a car accident on a
motorway in the summer)