| In English
At this strange conjunction
On this mundane page.
Where ‘could’ becomes ‘will.’
There issues forth
An unbearable weight on the world.
Such small connecting words,
Chosen from the crowded ink
Hardened, crossed out rewritten
Pencilled in, to clothe a purpose
Jarring like teeth on marble.
Now, ‘potential’ becomes ‘imminent’.
For those who speak another tongue
Whose words create a stream of chatter
In a foreign marketplace
Their words appear weightless.
In our language of self-abuse
We’ve lost our way.
We forgot the comforting smell of roses
Widens to the odour of sickening rapeseed
Yellow like a desert.
If you've any comments on this poem, John Whitehouse would be pleased to hear from you.