For children like Aylan
To kings and queens who frown at dirty waves
the funeral drums of Turkish tides have rolled and
a boy who killed Canute is dead, long live the boy.
To the rich who write of rags in tabloid rags
I have seen the sad buoy of boy in mocking sun
and mirror sold for hands of filthy lifeline silver.
To leaders who follow migrant yachts of bone
in hand me down sails donated from sad folk
their breath should have been sufficient as visas,
and hear the boy you would not hark, for he spoke
in waves too blue for us to bear, and we are breaking
upon his island of dead child and dream.