The Day After

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