Will they give us bread
Mother?
The men digging.
Is mud cake?
Premature snow icing?
I’m not smiling anymore
My daughter has no petticoats
to fold
No dresses to fly with dance
The farm is burnt
Fields reluctantly open
And fill with families
Like ours
Though they are almost still
They wave above their heads
From the damp grave
The single long grass
And the carnival flower
Hoping to attract your attention
But our voices will be patted down
With the flat side of a spade.’
And we will be silenced forever.
.
Malcolm Paul
Picture Nick Victor
.