SILENCES

After the bell strikes I think

of the seconds the bomb burst broke

the chatter and there was silence on the train.

In these silences I sometimes think

of deserts. Winston Churchill. Towers and castles

felled like forests. Che Guevara. Afghanistan.

No-one more silent than the dead.

Nothing more silent than the schoolroom razed by drones.

Nowhere more silent than the battlefield tomorrow.

THE GRANDMOTHER SHUFFLE

for MH

My Grandmother shuffles the cards in her palms,
but boxes them. These days her palms

are smaller, she remembers. She remembers the Luftwaffe
bombing Coventry better than dinners. She boxes them.

She does not notice. The shadows are creeping
over the kitchen like Luftwaffe. Those gentlemen

she courted in Birmingham remember the prick
of her hat pin. They got too fresh. It was only a first date

that slipped from her grip like a butterknife.
The Luftwaffe are thunder, sending her running

under the stairs. Now she is shuffling.
Her small palms boxing the names of her nephews

and grandsons.  She remembers them like a husband.
They get fresh each time they meet. The Cathedral is burning.