Tonight the world is twisting its face too hard
against my window – a man guns his way
into a room of beautiful people – a friend cries
how it’s inoperable – the politician who lies
and lies before asking, ‘can’t you take a joke?’
‘Oh’ my friend cries, ‘my children, my children’,
and although the only real answer is ‘your children’,
I lie instead and tell her, ‘they will survive’,
while outside in the moonlight a snail
eats its way slowly through the English hedgerow,
leaving the trail of surprising beauty:
a silver spirograph, laced leaves.
We will all survive, the world’s children,
some of us may even leave beauty behind us,
but it’s slow. So slow. And hard to trust
when even clouds have hearts to break.