I shouldn’t see the type of film where anger dwells,

where fury starts to rise in my guts and demands stoking,

where if left unchecked fire burns

and nettle stings my eyes and makes them

burn in their own private nasty Hell, no sanctuary,

no quarter given, no refuge, no safe haven;

instead all I end up thinking about is you

and how I was not able to save you,

how I let you down as you lay

on the cold Salisbury pavement,

the sound of an ambulance drawing near

to the carousel which assisted in taking your life

and the blood smeared mark

you left on my shirt, accusing me of being

the only one that cared.

 

Damned men of soot and ash cloth,

you have paid your price and no doubt

moved on the moment the rusted iron doors

slammed shut on your back; I wish I had seen it,

I wish I could have locked you away

as I have been, frozen in that moment

in which a young boy’s life

ceased to be important,

in which my dearest ever wish never came true,

breathe, breathe,

please breathe…

 

Ian D. Hall 2016