Prop

I watch you shoring up your father’s grief
a pit collapse, an act of spontaneous bravery
whilst waiting for the official help to arrive,
a frantic calm encamped around your sad eyes
masquerading gamely, taut as terror.

I haven’t forgotten your loss
your own crumbling cavern, where
carefully obscured, shuttered off
the falling shards pierce flesh unseen
weakening the mortar of your bold resolve

Hold on, I can hear the voices, see the lamps
albeit in the distant gloom,
you will be saved, carried into the light
the sweet air of tomorrow, but for now
press hard against your father’s chest.

© Graham Sherwood 02/2018