I want to see the past as history

A yellow trace of autumn at the heart of the green

No, I was not there at that midnight celebration

When they loaded them into trucks like so many cattle

And took them to the abattoir with such scrupulous efficiency

Like of a morning, good people are taken to the temple

For a necessary ceremony.

True, I did not stand there, nonchalantly drawing on a cigarette

When that child was cast into the pit

Like an old vessel that had outlived its usefulness

Fit for the rubbish-tip.

I have never picked words like incinerated bones

From a pile of ashes

Nor have I ever concealed them like suppurating wounds:

I have never listened to uplifting music

In mellow light filtered through a lampshade of human skin —

Even so

Why do I feel as though I am responsible?

As though I had been there that midnight when they took my neighbours

I would have watched in fear from the window

As they were taken away

To God, in whom I have no faith, I would have made

A craven prayer

And I would have washed and wiped my speech

Clean of the mire, the blood and the fear

Safe indoors, I would write

Day-bright poetry of sunlight.

I wasn’t there

But if I was, I would have been silent

So I want to see the past as history

A yellow trace of autumn at the heart of the green

I want to hear the scream hidden in my prayer.