A bitter wind drives
The sweet acrid stench
Of hateful men
Deep into my soul.Sharp shards of steel
Greet the eye
Burnt, twisted, fragile
Grotesquely straining upwards
Towards what might have been –
And what was.Fires burning deep within
Yield papers swept away
Heavenwards….
The forlorn remains
Of ideas crushed.Somebody’s “vitally important” memo
Now irrelevant
Fluttering by the 33rd Floor
Defying the pull of Wall Street
Hustling below.White angels dancing
In the air
Strangely liberated
Not bound now by files
Convention, form and time.
David Coltart
New York