September 11th, 2001

Like much of the world, I spent a large part of yesterday reflecting on the 20th anniversary of the September 11th terror attacks in the USA, and how the world was never, and never can be, the same again following that tragedy. The following poem was written some years after, and although it has appeared on various online platforms over the years, I have subsequently edited the poem, and this is its first appearance in its definitive form. It describes my walk home from work that afternoon, oblivious to what was going on and wrapped up in my own thoughts. News travelled more slowly in those days.

SEPTEMBER 11th, 2001 

After an early shift 
I pass the hairdressers, 
the paper shop, 
semi’s, Vauxhalls, 
hanging-basket-driveways. 

To save time, I cut along the Ring Road 
down an avenue of bungalows 
and bounteous gardens 
bright with fuchsias, roses and chrysanthemums. 
Its quiet, but then again, its Tuesday afternoon. 

Sunlight is cemented in a frosty sky. 
It's that time of year when you sense 
the changes in the air: 
shells appear on pavements, 
webs straddling the snickets, 
a chilly nip in the breeze. 
The nights are getting darker, quicker. 

As I walk through the door, 
full of cheery hello's, 
he greets me from the landing 
with a face like someone’s died. 

“You haven’t heard yet, have you?” he says.

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