There's a parcel at the door.

Tiny, red mittens
have washed up at my door.

Tiny, red mittens have washed up
at my door.
Innocent, insistent, dead, demanding.

A Monday morning Aylan Kurdi
that cannot be ignored.
That asks for greater humanity than I can afford.
Innocent, insistent, dead, demanding...why me ?

It's a fine, grey morning, and I'd like
nothing more than a fine pack of
Lambert and Butler King Size cigarettes, thank you very much.
(I don't roll mine.)
But them bloody mittens.
I hold them (can't wear them obviously, they're
too small, and not mine), I hold them close to my heart,
kiss them,
kiss them tenderly,
and set them on fire.