BELONGING TO AIR

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