28 dead on the church steps
colour stark against the grey of the street
the grey of the sky
the grey doves
I wonder if it's a sacrifice
to a God who has not listened
or perhaps,
in some final way,
a blessing for the dead
I hear the distant thunder
roll over the hills
that used to be mountains.
The sky ready to open up,
for that small piece of existence
for one bird
feathers cold against the stone.