By Owen Bullock,
wrapped in multi-coloured paper
in the shape of a citadel
unwrapped
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