John Eppel
Something less like light than darkness dawning,
less like mist than rubble-rousing smoke;
less like bird-duets than mothers mourning,
less like chance than someone’s cruel joke.
More like gloom than aspiration rising,
boys and girls committing suicide;
not unexpected, no, not surprising,
yesterday another teacher died.
Avoidable, the shame of poverty,
of flight from psychopathic power;
avoidable the neighbour’s hanging tree,
insecticide, the fatal flower.
Our Chefs carousing in their bubble –
Ubuntu’s been reduced to rubble.
Featured at The Red Wheelbarrow on 14 July 2022
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