Lesley Watkins
People, both ragtag and well-attired
flee to some other place
another land.
Leaving everything they knew
owned, once loved
once a farm, now a war zone
once a city, now a pile of rubble.
Bags and coats, almost nothing
carried across an ocean
to a shore they do not know.
Victims cry, lost and forgotten. The sea hungry
eats them up.
Children pushed into rescuers’ arms
if they are lucky.
Crossing icy waters, paid the ferry man twice
once in coin
and cameras record it all.
When did we become so cold that we could watch
such pain of civilisation
and not feel moved to
change our world?
For the memory
of a child, lying
on the sand.