Iceberg
as the vigil’s midnight hour winds down.
Waiting for the news, the tension grows,
lashing out with iron claws.
Respite is refused.
Somewhere, when the smoke is clear in my head,
statisticians will appear to count the dead.
Somewhere, half a world away, dismayed
families will hold their heads,
shuddering in pain.
Solemn faithful kneel and pray on high
that news will come before the cynics try
to raise the cross. But then the casualties
are not the lost who count the cost.
It’s the families.
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