Hold Them Close. Sarah Agnew

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      will anyone be happy again, smile

      again, laugh again? has all the gay

      gone from the world? or will

      it land in our midst, a giant dragon

      with expansive tail bending love around

      the mountain?

      out of the mouths

      1.

      On a Paris street,

      in a morning walk, they stop

      to talk to the camera:

      Papa, I am scared.

      Of what, my child?

      Of the angry people

      and their angry guns—what if

      they come back again?

      Then we will lay more flowers,

      my child; we will always

      have more flowers.

      2.

      In a home Down Under,

      on the way to slumber, they stop

      for a pressing question:

      Mum, what will happen

      when there is no more room?

      No more room for what,

      my child? What if—

      there is no more room for all

      the bodies, to put them when

      they need rest?

      Then we will dig deeper,

      my child, we will find

      a way to go deeper still.

      3.

      In an ancient never ending story,

      Ramah wails again; lamentation

      covers the bodies, bomb-dust

      and fire smoke, stifling cover, suffocation,

      smother—

      Rachels kneel unseen among the stones,

      in the fallen shell-shocked ruins

      of life made empty; Rachels

      who will not be consoled, refuse

      flowers for the burden grief will lay

      upon them, must lay within

      them, deeper, so much

      deeper than humans ought to dig.

      There are no streets, no graves, no

      children asking what if—

only Rachels’ weeping1 turning

      dust to restless mud.

1. “A voice is heard in Ramah, mourning and great weeping, Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.” (Jeremiah 31:15; cf. also Matthew 2:18)

      Sing on

      An ode to Manchester. 23.05.17

      Petals bled their white

      and red, from roots

      buried deep under hearth

      of home; but the Song

      outgrew the Roses.

      Streets and theatres burst

      exploding from a spark

      buried not so far from hearth

      and home; but the Song

      drowned out the Blitz.

      City centre blast

      to rubble, the cord

      buried within the hearth

      of home; but the Song

      outlasted the Troubles.

      Small shadows flicker

      light eclipsed, the switch

      buried by the hearth

      of home; but the Song

      will outshine Terror.

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