Ashen-Grey For You
Where the same sun
burnt my heart
without thieving,
did it scorch
your conscience ?
Did her father's
gold ring glint, ready
to take, stash away
and sell it later
when time cooled ?
Did my mother's
silver etui with
its propelling-pen
entice your greed
for more ready cash ?
My own childhood –
spoon, 'food' shover;
my first wrist-watch;
but my grandson's mobile?
A pathetic theft !
Where the same moon
cooled London's city,
cut steel, like you,
I bled tears
in disgust.
Did sparks singe
your ugly mask
bent over deposit
boxes, seeking,
searching, finding…
my grandmother's
only photograph ?
Did you rip it up
or your dirty boots
kick it skyward
like her updraught
at Auschwitz ?
I burnt in winter
never to cool down –
words still smouldering.
Page(s) 38-9
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