A very British tragedy (edit)

I watch her face with the sound turned down. The
breeze lifts the yellow ribbon in her hair,
it flutters playfully in the seaside
town where nothing bad ever happens.

Her lips press a silent prayer to Mother
Mary, I turn up the volume, wanting
to snatch the gut wrenched words, dissect her pain,
turn it over in my hands, wallow in
her grief through the safety of glass, until
the boom, boom of the EastEnders theme tune.

And on Monday morning, stuck in traffic
I seek her slender hands, clutching the pink
eared bunny, then hum a long to Chris De burg.

And when things are slow at work I click on
her face and observe each blink, each tiny
flinch; flirt with dark maternal fears until
home time and my evening glass of Merlot.

And when I wake in panicked breaths, unnamed
worries tangled in sheets drenched in sweat. I
picture her cheekbones and the deepening
hollows beneath, until I return to
contented dreams, soft and sensual.

Our national conscience binds us almost
festively. Wearing yellow ribbons in
collective harmony, we reach out to
one another, cry for all that’s wrong with
the world, distilled in a smudged iris and

a mothers pain; post Diana, our lips
tremble in a very British tragedy.