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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The language becomes narrower each day;

Our actions and our words decelerate.

Only in the aftermath of slaughter

Do we attempt to find the words for death:

Some words to tick the box and shrug it off,

To come to terms with our cheap cuts of guilt.

Their boy lies, unresponsive, while we live

To relish the chaos of adulthood.

Truth is complicated. Dumped in a hole,

Until j...

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