Westminster, March 2017 by Marilyn Hammick

The people who won’t be going home today
are people like you and people like me.
This morning they checked their emails,
read another chapter of their book,
bought a coffee to go and, wrapped against
only the March wind, chose the pavement.

The people who ran towards the blood
are people like you and people like me.
This afternoon they took off their coats
to pillow an injured man’s head,
blew their breath into a dying women,
put their palms across pulsing wounds.

All these people walked from the south
or the north, they were willing to cross over
and look east and west towards the other side,
the side with plenty of places for more bridges
if people like you and I make the space. 

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