The day after the bombs fell, <br />After the fire warden, running with his tin hat, <br />The screams, the flames, the stirrup pump, the terror, <br />Dust settled on a newly ravaged street <br /> <br />Homes were card-houses, <br />Higgledy-piggeldy, lying like drunks <br />In insecure repose. <br /> <br />Matchsticked floors rose up <br />Like the bones of a Sunday chicken <br />Still waving wallpaper <br />The spit and polish of daily life was suspended. <br /> <br />Curious bystanders, neighbours, <br />Stood in awe of the dead homes <br />Spilling domestic entrails over the road <br /> <br />Some, too numb to grieve, <br />Make the death-defying dive into denial <br /> <br />Who could balance the books? <br />A child’s doll, trapped in the rubble <br />Held onto her hidden owner <br />Waiting the spade, the shovel, the makeshift undertaker <br /> <br />The silent human audiences, <br />In a still life, real life movie <br />Are always the ones who pay the price of war.<br /><br />sheena blackhall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-day-after-13/
