I returned to the Falklands to a white wonderland. London is boiling, the temperature and the mood. The West London fire was so shocking as was some people’s response to it. I think this poem captures my own mood and thoughts as I watch the media coverage from a distance.London’s burning
in the hot summer days.
Opinions begin to turn
as shock hardens to rage.
Once again a familiar tale
based on innocents lost.
Those to whom safety did fail,
now a political agenda to emboss.
Their sad tragedy taken up
by others who want the fight,
reigniting inner bonfires
fueled by ideas of left versus right.
So fire begins to spread,
as the battle for meaning begins.
A divided nation wanting answers,
each perspective needing to win.
But in the deep feeling
what of those who are gone?
What would they be saying,
what pitch their campaign song?
Their suffering is our own,
of that no attempt to debate.
But let us be careful not to add
personal agenda to this awful fate.
For it is real people who have died,
who are more than just ideas.
Let us seek them dignity and justice,
but away from the intense heat
of our own highly flammable fears.