North of the equator, April
might be “the cruellest month”.
Down here, in the south,
August is cruel.
Spring, with its promise of hope
new growth, and plans for the future,
blossom, daffodils and birdsong
sits uneasily amidst shattered houses
with gaps where there used to be
a teeming metropolis.
Roses may flourish despite
liquefaction, but where are
the lost lives, missing pets,
uprooted and tortured trees?
Mine is a grieving city,
and grief heightens contrasts.
What is black looks more black,
what is white looks more white.
No wonder we are pulled apart
by this poignancy of seeing.