Burn

Last week, a child was

knocked off his bike

at the corner,

just over the Kagami Bridge,

and now they

leave out flowers,

still wrapped in plastic

and there’s a can of soda,

his favourite brand.

Cars turn constantly

around that wound,

and the drivers don’t think of it,

and there are new flowers

everyday,

while the scent of incense

and petrol

fills the nostrils

of school girls who

fly past him in gaggles.

And what have we

lost with that boy?

Someone else will

fill his spot on the road

and I’ll go on my way

scuffing my feet,

not so special after all,

just like him

and the girls who

come and come

round that corner and

pile up in schools, in

offices and in hospitals.

There must be something

that makes these people

burn,

some madness

they stuff deep in pockets,

hands clenching their agonies.

They hide it too well,

I think,

as they swing about this world

like a huge, cold pendulum,

oblivious to the ones

who get knocked off.

But perhaps it’s

buried deep in the soil

of paddies and

in the rice chaff

left out for the bonfires,

where it lies warm

and thickly scented

and is kept safe  and apart,

as dangerous things are kept.

And I suppose

when they came to

put today’s flowers down

at the corner,

they heard it burning and wailing

from deep within the earth.

Copyright Ricky Barrow 2014

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s