There is a beauty
that walks in the darkness,
makes its way
among the bombs
and broken lives,
offers blankets
and shoulders to cry on,
puts on kettles
and bandages,
mends what it can,
and asks
for not one thing back,
as it wraps
in its arms
the troubled night,
and waits
for morning
and its pale sunlight.
How blessed am I
to live beneath a strong and stable sky
and the warmth it enables me
from a sun that shines down,
strongly and stably.
Me, with these strong and stable legs,
that take me past the queues
of people – long unable to be fed –
waiting to give thanks
outside the strong and stable food banks,
and beyond where the library once was,
now strongly converted
to stable a private medical centre,
that makes the sick (but financially abler)
stronger and stabler.
And further on, the school
strongly lacking in staple equipment –
whiteboards, books, teachers –
all signs of a strong and stable commitment
to the dismantling of lives.
I thank the government
for such strong and stable times
then wander to the park, alone,
pausing to watch a cricket match.
I bend to sit upon the bench,
and fall through its rotted slats.
Brian Bilston 