Police form PF3

There is a paper the police require:
without it, children can’t be taken in.
We see the pictures: evidence of burn
and broken bone, the fist, the stick, the fire.
Hardship and grind grip, bruise, twist growing limbs:
with every blow contagion seizes hold
from man to woman, woman to the child,
while neighbours turn a blind eye to the crimes.
One paper breaks the cycle. In a home
that’s free from horror, injuries are healed;
silences broken, lips no longer sealed.
Abusers start to understand their shame.
A tiny girl tries her new leg for size:
we see the faintest sparkle in her eyes.

For Manon Fleury and the Karibu Foundation



I almost wrote a poem:
piled metaphors like bricks
of Lego, hoped their reds
and blues would somehow stick.
I varied tone and pace, 
turned streams to rivers:
and then froze them, hoping
to give you the shivers.
I took a point of view,
perversely changed it, then
soared skywards, thinking you
might turn your head again.
I shifted gear, thought speed
might help improve my aim.
Striving to hold the light
I changed the form and frame.
My arrow almost hit. 
The monster almost stirred.
The mountain almost moved. 
I almost found the words.