Monday 24 November 2014

What's Terrorism?




















Charmouth, Dorset, on Sunday  - the beach -  and the black cliffs - slipping into the sea in slow grey rivers of mud.

This poem by Samantha Reynolds makes me sad for myself....makes me
 wonder why I write.

Why I write


I don’t write to remember
that when we drive past
the electrical tower
you say

look, it’s the Eiffel Tower

I write to leave crumbs
so I can find my way back
if I need to
at the end
for a moment
to inhale
that time
when my life
was big and new.

WHY I WRITE

Tonight, watching the 10'clock news, my husband asks me,

What's terrorism, please?

Trying to explain it is like that game where you  have to describe
an object to your team but aren't allowed to use any of the useful,
obvious words to help you.

Because my husband doesn't know them any more.

I write so that I can look back
over my shoulder
into that slow time
of the slippage
into the ocean.
All the pebbles
of his mind
drowning.

So that I can remember
it wasn't as bad
as it is now.

As if there were
degrees
of terror......






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