TN ( / )

Belonging To Air

As usual it begins with death.

Cops tearing around quiet corners
in hot pursuit of themselves.
Across the way is cordoned
while they chip away.
Our past bagged and stripped

Flashback to the young trees.
We thought it was over
for the first time and
our sun shone every day.

There were windows then,
behind which Mr Walford
caned boys caught inside,
as if his room was hallowed.

Not personal. Boys belonged
to air in those lost long lunches.

Across the way now
cards are marked.
Death is on the table.
More transformative,
than plain brown bread,
but with walls gone
where will our histories echo.

When this dust settles
can anything new begin.

Tony Noon

by Tony Noon

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