the package

By Owen Bullock,


wrapped in multi-coloured paper

in the shape of a citadel



shrinks to a small pyramid


receivers fiddle with the object

for a few moments

finding a door which slides open

to reveal a pebble, rust red


held in the hand, contemplated

it warms and cools

explodes into particles of jet-blue dirt

that descend like slow glitter

onto faces and hands

settling in like a skin cream

no change perceived


over the next few days

they laugh at inappropriate times

sing to strangers on the street

tame the tidal waves of looks

with glad eyes


people they meet

disclose things about themselves they never told anyone

cancer cells atrophy

blockages in arteries clear


singing softly

in the privacy of mirrors

stories of love

and days of loss

that brought them to their finest moments


they raise a chorus of children

singing Biko

by Peter Gabriel

into all the hatreds of the world





, ,