RITES
That rite of passage of the middle class –
chauffeuring offspring to the varsity –
took us the breadth of England, from Hoole to Hull.
Extending her childhood, our parenthood
or both, we travelled the edge of hope
and longing, by acres of burning stubble
and slagheaps greening. In the rearview mirror,
she leant forward to gossip about
the future…When she was eight, we’d planted
her cherry tree, knowing she would one day
climb up it and out of sight. We watched it
blossom in her absence.
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By David SelzerLOST
After the fluorescent shops and the snatched music,
the side street was damp and dark –
but a bag of chips and a manipulative adult
made the emptiness freedom.
Waterways were trawled and the usual,
time-dishonoured suspects questioned.
Down river, high tides returned her nine year old body.
The funeral cortège was a carriage and horses
and the local press was effulgent.
But gossip condemned her single mother,
living in a hostel on benefit.
The killer lived two floors down,
an estranged father of daughters –
a violent drunk, unemployed, unschooled.
Victim, mother and murderer
threaten the equivocal city.
Losers and losing
challenge its achievements.
Death is only one result of murder.
Remember sweet Fanny Adams – mutilated,
immortalised, profaned unthinkingly!
The murder and rape of children
seem beyond words, understanding, iniquity
– and another’s lack of love or the means to love
is out of our grasp, lost beyond finding.
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By David Selzer