Ruin

There is a moment when
the breath comes - all is
quiet in January, the birds
outside, the air unmoving
and the 'phone in the hand
becomes heavy and the voice
on the other end ephemeral,
belonging somewhere else.

And as you sink down onto
the carpet, thinking about how
tired you feel, how heavy
your arm, does the sun
strike a slender beam in
then, through your morning 
curtains?

And before you can get up
to go and make your morning
tea -

is there a quiet, still moment
when the breath leaves and
your body feels far away?

And when you are flying, 
weightless, into the sun
do you know anything of
devastation and vast
craters in the ground?

Where there was silence
and a crisp day there was
instead, a nuclear bomb.

You would not have heard
it, the huge vast noise,
or seen the huge looming
cloud, or felt the layers
of land collapse

as you followed her
from an Easter Sunday
long ago when your daughter
sat on a hill stone
and stared at the sun.

The clouds were quiet
that day, presiding over
ruin, and all the ones
you left behind
were done.

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