Incident

Nothing new and nothing old

flows from the folds of Time,

no artist bold with talent cold

can paint the blood and grime.

At a stroke, explosive hate

spews colours of a mad conceit.

Those who run, but get there late,

stand puzzled in the street.

Another portrait lies beneath

life’s dried and blackened crust,

other mothers lay a wreath

for sons they could not trust.

Through galleries of disbelief,

in landscapes bruised by fears,

men shout atop the cliffs of grief,

Time stops to gather tears.