By Jack Andrew Cribb
I once saw an infant ripped
from his startled mother,
a syllable from a phrase no longer cared for,
only useful to a select few of a different language,
scribes of the flesh,
spawned from a canine fantasy,
where wolves become gods in a land of plenty
where we all starve,
In the north of England,
a man sits in a warm room alone.
He has a hunger for touch,
simple skin on skin is all he needs,
he doesn’t know this
as he knocks back cans of lager,
but he is weak,
fragile as a mountain flower clinging
to the cracks in a rock high in the alps,
preyed upon by the cold,
swimming deep in loneliness,
drowning in it.
He pushes half-touched sirloin around a plate,
drenched in gravy,
poured over cold potatoes.
Spat-out gristle and cut-off fat sit
on the edge of the porcelain,
they look like tumours
congealing around his disregarded emotion,
little bundles of tasteless cells,
decaying in a heap.
A mother cries into the mud,
broken by a land of tears
and wasted milk.
It is a moment which begs contemplation,
a moment, however small and insignificant to some,
a moment of machinery creeping into the fields,
of forests burnt at the stake,
of smoke so black it is blue,
of mist slowly rising out of the depths of your eyes,
unnatural and yet commonplace.
A man sits in a warm room alone,
chewing on the fat.
Little does he realise,
grief sounds the same in every language.