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PAShTROCh: Hungerford Poem

When I think of those faces shadows will come down on flickering memories, fighting to be found.
Friends and relations—one friend of my own—gone from this place here, gone from their home.
There is a time on a hot day
when a long shadow hits the street
then he is walking past and I hope we do not meet
because he is dangerous, really gone serious.

Placed on a time fuse, waiting in line, a sudden explosion is no respecter of time.
So the town slipped a heavy silence as they were picked off, one-by-one.
Up was the small man, living big dreams through his gun.
Widows he was making, leaving sons on their own.
We’ve all worn our black suits and now try to forget wot he has done.
Coz it’s never the like seen, it’s never been known.

I come here for a refuge—this is my Home.
It is not an offensive in Saigon nor bombs being dropt on Hanoi.
We are not back in Beirut, party to anotha cease-fire ploy.
This is a town on the tightrope, the town on tha rocks.
We want ya to wake us, and tell us it is not.
Friends and relations—one friend of my own—gone from this place here, gone from their home.

It was a tangible feeling, being owt in tha midday sun,
thick with tha knowing that something was WRONG.
There were countless dogs running away from the sound.
No pausing—no barking—no sniffing tha ground.
There is blood in tha lanes, dead in tha street.
When he is walking past I hope we do not meet…

Because he is dangerous, really gone serious.

I remember a little face holding Mummy’s hand,
and he couldn’t hurt a fly playing Action Man.
Now he’s dangerous, really gone serious.
Friends and relations—one friend of my own—gone from this place here, gone from their home.

Really gone…Serious

Chris Bowsher (1989)