Doomed Child

Last night a child, dead 400 years Crawled up the stairwell of my thought From a monk’s book It clawed at the door of my heart, A pitiful scratching Two years old, naked, bewildered, He stands by the surging river Did poverty drive him out? A lack of love or disease? A war or some other disaster? Too young to comprehend Such portentous matters He stands, waiting for food Huge eyes, small needs Waiting for someone to pour A ladle of cleansing water Over his crud smeared buttocks Pair of monks passes by Moved, they give him a meal Then walk away Soon, he’ll be an empty bowl of bones In the fattening reeds I am outraged, appalled, horrified Yet I’ll watch a TV advert Showing a child with ribs Like piano wires straining to snap As I sprinkle nuts on my porridge Some leaves will always fall In the Wrong Season