Sit tight. Do nowt. Say nowt.Hear all. See all.
Watch the deadly idiotboard of news unfurl.
Watch the deserving rich desert the poor.

A featureless snowstorm of foreign fear,
eyes glazing over, lacking focus. Fearing
zealots within and without. Without power
of intervention. Beyond comprehension.

Behind my camera their world carries on.
I focus on the narrow scene in front,
a smiling group, their eyes focussed beyond
my shoulders. I try to frame it tight.
They won't keep still for long from engaging
in the rhythms they see beyond.

A never to be repeated moment,
heavily borne responsibility, not just a snap,
a future chance to look beyond reality.

What are they thinking - Oh do get on?
Or what of earth is she wearing?

A picture triggers memories,
some warm, some forgotten.
But who was that at the back?
His name escapes me - a reminder
that memories may be blind.

We wait, not showing nerves for face,
betrayed by unnatural ways.
Quick glances, nods, prayers to gods,
a restless quiet descends on us.

Thoughts dominated, in distress,
no relief in brightly coloured walls,
A nervous joke, tense smiles pretend.
A name is called, one chosen, others stalled.

Trying thinking more hopefully,
but I'm sinking into reverie -
the doorway's open - no escape.

Vast lists of names at cenotaphs
on crosses, in columns of newspapers,
inscribed by those who lived, for those
I never knew so can't remember.

Reduced to uniform remains,
some named 'Soldier of the Great War'.
A greatness in numbers lost,
lives wrecked - measures of excess.

November flags dip, bands march,
standing to mark with silence
violence done to those unknown to them.
Some lament more recent deaths.

The piety of war.

They're bright pink, so not bought for me.
Smooth surfaced petals curling back
like luxury tactile textiles.
Their shape defining shadows
paint a surface symmetry.
Trusting eager stems stretch upwards
but the ceiling sheds no sunlight.
It's March and these are summer roses.
Short stay visas, not cottage flowers.

A week later and there's wilting.
Petals like used tissues wrinkle,
silk dresses rustling to the floor.
Dark green leaves crumble to the touch.
Stilled life leaves fragrant memories.

Behind my camera their world carries on.
I focus on the narrow scene in front,
a smiling group, their eyes focussed beyond
my shoulders. I try to frame it tight.
They won't keep still for long from engaging
in the rythms they see beyond.

A never to be repeated moment,
heavily borne responsibility, not just a snap,
a future chance to look beyond reality.

What are they thinking? Oh, do get on!
Or, What on Earth is she wearing?

A picture triggers memories,
some warm, some forgotten.
But who was that at the back?
His name escapes me - a reminder
that memories may be blind.

An empty street succumbs to one
solitary walker, anonymous
in his raincoat, listening to his
own footsteps, and the camping holiday rain,
dripping. Pigeons mutter disapproval
at this inconsiderate interloper.

His stride shortens, pace quickens, feeling
discomfort at his isolation,
his cold wet feet spattering through puddles.

Grids gurgle, lace curtains tremble.
Mute unseen watchers focus on this
dark figure at the centre of the
taciturn invisible crowd.

Guessing his destination and
motives - a night worker
or burglar up to his tricks -
until his key opens number
twenty-six. Uncountable stealthy
spies retreat and sigh.