In February, in the dark time
From pancakes' smoke to Easter's shine
In Friday's rush, at ten to four,
A driver tapped our workshop door,
Turned to the truck. I heard high wind
Whistle the cliffs of flats behind.
I went to prop our own door wide.
He was a small man, heavy-eyed,
Who spoke of rain, leaned on his truck.
I saw the great steel door blow back,
Sweep at him like a guillotine.
I shouted. He leapt back in time.
'It would have crushed his spine, his head.
He would have died,' my husband said.
Instead, he carried trays of screws,
Drove off inside the roar of news.
I was not sitting on the ground,
Still faint, as sirens mourned and drowned.
The twenty-ninth, the lightless West,
rained on my face. I stood, was blessed.
– Alison Brackenbury
from the TLS
"Alison Brackenbury was born in Lincolnshire in 1953. She now lives in Gloucestershire, where she has worked for almost twenty years in the family metal finishing business."