AFTER

Fiction's not the only literary art form I dabble in. Some of my poetry has been published in the UK. I woke this morning to some hard-hitting news. Our community, yet again, has lost young lives in a tragic road incident. The loss has called to mind a piece I wrote 2 years gone, on our young and the road toll. Timely to share today. I look forward to when this piece gathers dust, forgotten.
After
The mother cries the sound of a curlew, Her audible anguish stills, for too many lean, too many need
She cries in her silence
Tears run inward,
The curlew nests, for that is what the curlew must do
 
The father stands still, a stag caught in bright light
Looks over without seeing,
Stoic and strength are pretence,
The heart is grazed deeply
Too deeply for male mortar to repair,
The stag provides shelter, for that is what the stag must do

The sister folds inward Lips convex forever, not a sound do they make
Yet whimpers peal often,
So often they strip layers, layers more, layers deep
Breath is now taken by halves,
To the curlew she turns, on the curlew she leans, for she senses the limp of the stag

The brother sees black Yet rage cannot be more red
All sense now gone, his all, a whirling void,
The hole at his feet, if mirrored, a volcano
Molten is now his world
His heart limps just as the stag walks

For the wrong, night is the enemy, as is self hate
Cannot look to their own curlew
Cannot look to their own stag
They cannot be, the pain is beyond horrendous

The world looks on with despair Another, another, another
When, why, how
When will learning come
Why such recklessness
How they now suffer

We wait for the next, for that is what we do
  www.wix.com/ksphotograph/kingst2