Doomed Child Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Last night a child, dead 400 years
Crawled up the stairwell of my thought
From a monk’s book

It clawed at the door of my heart,
A pitiful scratching

Two years old, naked, bewildered,
He stands by the surging river

Did poverty drive him out?
A lack of love or disease?
A war or some other disaster?

Too young to comprehend
Such portentous matters
He stands, waiting for food
Huge eyes, small needs
Waiting for someone to pour
A ladle of cleansing water
Over his crud smeared buttocks

Pair of monks passes by
Moved, they give him a meal
Then walk away

Soon, he’ll be an empty bowl of bones
In the fattening reeds

I am outraged, appalled, horrified
Yet I’ll watch a TV advert
Showing a child with ribs
Like piano wires straining to snap
As I sprinkle nuts on my porridge

Some leaves will always fall
In the Wrong Season