We walk with papers cradled to our chests,
stars who sniff risk, stray vicars in their vests,
the child of hope who had all life to reach
who washed so quietly upon our beach.
Do people of each town love papers so,
the battered Standard or their blurred Echo?
Here is bad news, with which the good days start,
the quickened breath, the child’s kick to the heart.
Reactors heat. Before the final fission,
walk faster. Catch it, for your last edition.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Alison
Brackenbury would be pleased to hear them.