by Winston H. Plowes
An omen lost at birth.
This island on the edge of light and secrets.
This stretch of sound
less-visited, still and unclaimed.
A hart guarded
like a freshly cut trench
surrounded by layers of love.
Something in the tiny pine coffins
sounds like summer had stopped beating.
Lifeless in part,
afraid of burying the detail.
Author’s Notes: This is a transcription of a found poem in the erasure style where all the above words appear in an article in The Times (of London) on 17th January 17, 2014 "New Yorkers demand access to mass graves on convict island". Original article by Will Pavia addresses the concern over access rights to bodies of young children buried by convicts on Hart Island.
Editor’s Note: More information at The Hart Island Project.
Winston H.Plowes writes his words on a narrowboat on England’s inland waterways. His compositions have been widely published, hopefully making people pause and ponder the magical details of life.
