Remembrance Poem

I wish I could have thought of a better, more fitting title. I wish I could write poetry better. There’s nothing worse than feeling the urge to write something in response to a tragedy, and not having the appropriately honed skills for the job. But the urge was too great.

Aberfan 

Black. The valley was turning black

Where the basilisk slumbered.

 

The beast’s heel slides,

Starting slowly, rising fast,

A tremendous speed.

Turning itself into a pitch-dark wave; wet, wild,

Down towards the mountain

Down towards the village

Diving into the mist.

 

Roaring like a jet plane,

Screaming through the fog.

Scales glistening black.

It gorges itself on trees, on rocks, on homes.

Swelling to fantastical enormity

In its murderous descent.

 

Gathering speed,

It tips the sky

Arcing over the Green Hollow,

Dashing itself against the saint, slain martyr.

Its tail lashes the church bells tongue,

Black-dusted.

Vomiting death.

 

All. Is. Silent.

Nature is speechless.

 

Bent beneath the disregarding sky

Headlamps lit,

Raw hands rake polished bile.

Salt the spoil.

Pierce the calcified hide.

 

And within the belly of the beast

A boy waits.

With death on his shoulder.

 

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Published by

Alexandra

I'm a writer - or at least I am trying to be - a miscellany of genres, some published, some not. Hates pulses, litter, dog poo, noisy neighbours, our street, spitting, adverts, modern cars, yellow shoes, liver, and people who moan...

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