Poem

From the River to the sea.

A solemn Keffiyeh draped man gathered a variety of tiny boots and mobile phones off a Palestinian street, placing them into a tattered bag; the smouldering carnage of a burnt out school in the background; a cruel retribution, for a nation's cause.

Those same phones now suddenly vibrating and pulsating with life; one, then another and then another and then other, each one a signature tune of the childs personality; pink coloured phones, Scooby-Doo ring tones.

Desperate Fathers, mothers, brothers, sisters, friends, grand parents, uncles, aunties, school teachers; any one of a thousand possibilities that had been sent their way during such a short life, hoping against any conceivable nightmare that the image on their TV screens, was not the one, with the bomb, that had torn apart their flowering song. Phones that had been more than a mere accessory; sharing pain, sadness, hurt, the school yard intrigue, the highs, the lows, innocence, sunny days in the park, some one to talk to while walking home alone in the dark, sharing everything, listening intently...

Pleading for their hands, hoping, waiting for tiny fingers decorated with shiny baubles, wrists jangling with spangles and bangles... now possibly lying somewhere in a street, or maybe melted, part of smouldering, dismembered heap; the same crowded street the besotted girl waved to her family from only minutes previous; that same family who before leaving the house on such a morning that should surely have trembled to begin; whilst gathering their elderly saw the TV scenes; now phoning, waiting; watching the old man with the bag...