Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Writing

Contaminated

One hundred thousand pounds is not enough.

It cannot buy back the stolen.
It cannot let angels walk the Earth again.
It cannot piece back the people who were torn apart by their unheard pain.
It cannot make Major and Clarke let down their defences and just look.

Why won’t they look into tearful eyes,
accept that “bad luck” is not a synonym for state sanctioned manslaughter?
Why do they throw pretty pound notes and run?

Their faces hidden,
stares fixed on the floor,
counting each pound,
one,
two,
three,
whispering each number until they reach one hundred thousand,
breathing a sigh of relief that it’s over.

It is not enough.

It cannot buy back the stolen.
It cannot let angels walk the Earth again.
It cannot piece back the people who were torn apart by their unheard pain.
It cannot make Major and Clarke let down their defences and just look.

It will never be enough.

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