BELONGING TO AIR
As usual it begins with death.
Cops tearing around our quiet corner
in hot pursuit of themselves.
Across the way’s cordoned
while they chip away.
Stripping down our past
to bag and take away.
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 classroom was hallowed.
Nothing personal.Just a belief
that boys belonged to the air
in long lunch hours
when he enjoyed barmcakes
brought daily to his desk
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
