London 1958
Lanternflame of tulips blanched by cold,
Their faces glow in dark of morning light
With frowns that sigh the covenant of wounds
Sam Johnson knew that man was chosen for.
Children of the Pentateuch or Cross,
Gin’s pale armour . . . even cloven hoof;
They could not know that Hitler’s cleansers soon
Would kill the whores of Cable Street and equally
The kindly hearths of nanas’ kitchen wombs.
Stammered buildings loom above the trove
Of faces only God is keen to loot:
In eyes that wage the war on pain with love
– Time dying at its birth . . . forever gone
Reborn forever where the photo longs.
– Ralph Cunningham
