A poem on Grenfell
The Kensington trees withhold their leaves so the rich never have to see.
Each branch dances for the mansion dweller, far from the Gomorrah at the edge of Eden.
There is no grief in hearts of coins.
Hell waits silently down Tavistock Road.
Homes grabbed by the gargoyle, smirking still through the stains of June.
No photos here, not needed, not wanted.
Souls see much further than the lens.
The screaming has stopped.
All noise spilled from windows onto winds of Notting Hill.
There were children in this cladded oven.
Poverty was their sickness, abandonment their executioner.
With lungs and bones they groaned and died alone.
The world held up their phones.
Too many names to blame.
Air too hot for the millionaire, ushered far from sweat and soot.
Her fingers untouched, untinged, uncooked.
Where were God’s hands as flames dethroned his plans?
Who stole grace from the Grenfell saints?
Time up for those whose time had come.
Tears for those melted to dust.
So with the revolutionary I will arise, tower block ghosts stood by my side.
That’s fire in their eyes.
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