When I drive over the moors
in the hugger-mugger traffic,
I think of the children
murdered, hidden.
When I see the southern sweep
of the Saddleworth Road
over the fern and the peat,
I think of them.
It is almost a prayer.
And I wonder if my chance,
fellow travellers think the same.
Remembrance is solitary, transitory.
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By David Selzer