1989

It was a good year. There might not have been bright cities in the sky or flames in the night, but it was a year for the shaking and stilling of nations. I sat in the darkened greenish phosphorescence of the old computer centre, and I wrote this for the children born that year. I never expected to meet any of them. It was that kind of silliness.

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December in the Poetry Room

Peace, children, is
not the continuation of war
by other means;
no, not that, nor the sullen anger
waiting to burst

But, peace; peace in
our time and in our space, it was
unexpected;
we did not, could not, know what to do;
it was a time

For the breaking
down of walls; we saw on every front
hope glimmering.
It was a different time, my children;
try, understand...

Perhaps we had,
had left the shadow of the long fear
behind ourselves
which was the breaking of the nations
you will not know

It's December.
All mankind buries its dead at last
and winter comes;
my children, in the summer months, will
you remember?

15 December 1989