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Friday, June 7, 2019

JUST A TRACE



I found a piece of driftwood
on the beach at
Bosphoral;
and a brush that
did the colours
on the signs
in Spanish Town,
but found there
not a trace
not a trace
of paint.

I see implements of torture
on the Serenghetti plains,
leaving not a taste 
of anger or distaste
leaving not a trace of hate

I find weapons of
destruction
by the towers
that burned down;
and blood and smoke
and damage mile
after mile
and leaving not a trace
of lies;

I see a mother's hairbrush
down the chapel in the back
and her favourite yellow
dress
and best shoes for the
dance;
and leaving just a
trace
of love;

I find a toy soldier
by the genocidal pits
and seeds and pits from an
apple
and a silver spoon with it;
and finding just a trace
just a trace
of gold.

I find a silver locket
on the Salisbury Road
I see a picture of a
mother, and child's sister
and two sons;
and leaving
not a trace
not a trace
at all.







(C)2019 by W.G. Milne





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