The hour rushed
To work and administration,
Some bent on death and destruction,
Wrong place, bomb time.
Late for an appointment?
UnBritish. struggle onto the tube.
8.51am At Aldgate East, a murderous beast.
At Edgware Road, an evil toad.
At King’s Cross, underground loss.
At Russell Square and Tavistock Square,
Sleeper assassins lure death from its lair,
Decapitating the defiant Double Decker bus
Red as the blood to be shed by us
All blown up, blown in, blown out.
Roll Call: 50 dead,25 missing,700 injured
60 countries,30 Gods.
Mobile videos bring action re-play life
To Breaking News misery, death and grief.
We warn, even as we mourn
The Death, depression, debilitation and amputation.
Half-mast flags flying for the dead, dying and defiant.
A concealing forest of friendly flowers
Carpets the blood-soaked memory,
A wall of weather withering wreaths
Screaming myriad griefs.
The killers are mad in mind.
But we ourselves become kind.
Half or priceless cabs, beds and breakfasts,
A bleeding hand held fast after the blasts.
May God forgive them
For we find it hard to disregard
Their ten pounds of bomb sounds.
But underground trains will re-run.
Number 30 buses will re-ply.
The rush hour will re-rush.
The maimed and injured will struggle
In a new wheelchair challenged world.
People will drink and pray at near misses
One may even slyly ‘disappear’
From unwanted lovers, debts and mortgages.
We miss the missing in the action of going to work,
Recheck missed calls and jammed networks,
Recall last words of fun, failure or ferocious fight.
This was no friendly fire.
Is this what life and God are about?
And by the way…. We, the world, shall overcome.