The way it is
In the turmoil of the High Street
a small boy
trailing at his mother's arm
is brushed from her protection.
The feet that pound towards the bus-stop
have crushed his fallen toy
his yellow duckling.
He howls his outrage, wordless.
He hasn't learnt to spell out
concepts, arguments explaining
the pain of it. He howls against
the sharp unfeeling carelessness
that wastes, that spoils, that crushes.
Mother retrieves the scraps.
Father perhaps will mend
- she has that faith.
The child knows better,
but he follows her
sobbing his helplessness.
As he sees the world extend
beyond her shelter,
he folds his duckling into memory,
enshrines it
in a special martyrdom.
Page(s) 18
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