A cold wind is blowing;

It makes its way in,

It seeps through the brick

And clings to the skin.

It pierces the heart

With icy disdain

And somehow compels you

To look up again.

And when you look up

What is it you see?

No castle, no garden,

No landscape, no tree;

Just untidy death

Of industrial scale.

Now all human life

Is a second-hand sale.

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"Suffer the little children to come unto me."

(who will protect them?)

O death where is thy sting,

O grave where is thy victory?

(More fine words as we fail them.)

Watch this space as more fall foul

of needless death's embrace.

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