The air is thick,
too thick for words to take shape.
Almost too thick for thought.
The air is heavy with the anger of the wise,
the guilt of the oppressor,
the souls of the oppressed.
As the innocent live their nightmare,
another’s dream has come to pass.
Staring, a woman.
The only thought the lump
in her throat cannot control.
‘We told you so.’
Sat helplessly on the sofa,
watching the screen –
recalling the scene, the scream.
A mother sits, on a cradling curb.
She is holding back
a thousand tears,
as flames engulf the
memory of years.
A furnace so easily avoided
climbing a fortress others
had so long ago forsaken. forewarned. foreshadowed.
Yet some, by others command remain,
and in remaining
stain the air, the stone,
the fretting human conscience with their human substance.
Someone, somewhere, is guilty.
The smoke spells their name upon the open sky.
Well, these are the Boroughs cheap lives –
easily taken. easily lost.
So, if you read Grenfell, read:
A fuel clad beehive,
an ants nest in the corner of my Mansion,
an eyesore the value of which is a fable.
these are a predators prey, and today the catch was fair game.
Here is the sum total
of collective neglect, local dismay, political derision.
A pile of dust and ashes which, until the truth is sought, and found, and spoken –
will never rise again.