By Jane Wallman-Girdlestone
Bewildered, searching, following.
Uncertain who or where,
When or how.
Are you goaded into action
By your fear of the unknown?
Or are you the ‘migrant’ workers the
Establishment media like to show?
Disconcerting images reach us
In our comfortable insularity.
Observed through a back lit glass,
A dead acquarium of humanity.
The child in us is speechless at your
birthed death in our oblong window
on the world.
You are bartered between nations
Bargaining chips in a poker faced
Denial that no one is to blame.
Thanking gods of superstition
We mumble indignation,
Painfully aware that
There but by the Grace of gods?
There but by a whim of genetics?
There but by a whisper of
An intimate touch from power