Besides the trees they line the streets
heads bowed in winter's foliage;
feelings freeze dried as the weekly ritual
slips past in silence.

One, two three, five, seven could pass;
the numbers don't matter, the presence -
everything. An unmuttered scream that
the denominator is too common.

Solidarity through unity they pray
as the flags pass un-noted by Whitehall
save for spreadsheets, statistics, costs,
readied for the tapestries of spin.

Arched eyebrows beneath bowed brows
watch the processions pass before
they return to warmth and homes
the joy of the living reinforced.

The people of Wootton Bassett,
witnesses to a world gone wrong.

08/17/2009

Posted on 08/17/2009
Copyright © 2024 Darren Swift