At the time I fussed over flowers;
Some burst open, vibrant red like flame,
like a shower of spray, colours of fecund possibility.
I worried that the lawn grew moss,
that the rain would stamp on the new buds -
When it came - in Grey-booted clouds, kicking violently
At the borders and the shrubs.
I would have to weed, stab and hoe, tie, slice,
dump weeds, struggling for life, into bins;
pull out roots, cut deeply into earth and emerge
muck under finger nails, palms stained with dirt.
The sun lit down and enticed the little ones.
They responded, earth tied but stretching,
And as the purple petals shrivelled I cut them off,
sometimes picking them between my nails, feeling the cool, clammy liquid
and poured them into Compost bins,
sweet smelling, like open fruit Left on hot windowsills.
Meanwhile, in noiseless horror, in muted
Terror a story emerged, shy into the light.
But the world seemed to move on.
Other small mouths stopped, their spray carnation lips,
beheaded.
Small forms in small blankets in rows like sleeping babies swaddled.
One report said the head had been topped like a boiled egg.
Another, asleep save for the cavern of a little half formed skull
Ajar like a neglected doorway.
The flower of three years, hands tied like some threat of rebellion -
as if the tiny nails might scratch a wound:
a lesson to those daring enough to want to talk of choice or poverty.
Innocence in robed white, stained dark black
In pictures grainy with the camera's honest diffidence:
Even too ashamed to reveal the girl's vest "dolly" print
Slashed like tyres, blood dripped and sticky like oil.
Little hands do no harm. Tiny mouths only want to sing,
small flowers are often beaten down by winds and late frosts.
How men can stand and idly watch as youth is
hacked like weeds one by one by one?
