Sweet little one,
With your dainty, delicate hands outstretched
You willingly leapt off the ledge
Into the hands of your
Winter in their smiles, they led you from the mall
Where you were last seen before you were gone
Bustling streets of Liverpool
Where strangers gush at the lovely sight
Of the three young boys-
A veneer of guileless innocence.
But they were blinded to the reason behind
The plight of those tears.
Tottering behind the big boys,
Through the meadows of breathing wildflowers
Into the cosy little shed where
You were fed batteries
Battered, Beaten, Bludgeoned, Splatted
With bright blue paint
Dropped on your head
Poor little doll
With your mangled little limbs,
They laid you to rest
On railway tracks
The situation, speculations,
It was everybody’s Devastation
The distant calls of soft, melodious
Ringing and rumblings arrives-
The whistles wails as the wheels
Slices through the silence of the night.
No time to bid goodbye
To grieving parents.
*Poem written in memory of James Bulger