77- High Cross

Already a great grey mass of it
tunnelling out from a sixth floor window
upwards and outwards; a boiling of smoke,

and then we saw more of it,
yellow as sulphur, seeping through casements
through joints in the high rise,
through floors and round corners
burgeoning columns
rising and swelling
as the first of the helicopters disappeared in the folds.

And this bus is in the wrong place.
We're lurching and swerving
as everything tries to get out of the way
but we're blocked in by sirens

and there's a woman on the bus who wants to get off.
Who has to get off.
She's standing and staggering, grabbing at shoulders,
there's a bouncing of apples and a rolling of tins,

and the shrill of her cries is higher then sirens
but the driver can't help her
with cars at odd angles clutching the curb.

Her need is too great and she has the doors open,
she's off and she's running with all of us watching
wondering who and how she is saving.

Then, somehow, we're free of the tangle
off up the road like a twig in a stream,
heading for town
where nothing has happened.
We're waiting to see it on telly tonight.

But I'm thinking of a woman I saw,
leaning out of her top floor window,
her face sometimes obscured by the smoke.
and the ashes of her neighbours belongings
was as calm, as though she was watching
the afternoon telly or someone she knows,
just slightly, hanging out the washing.

©Rosie Garner