For Manchester

Manchester, 2017

Wendy Pratt



Right now I don’t know

how to have a heart that isn’t broken.

The sea is still turning over

on Filey beach, the sandpipers are dipping

and running back. At five am

the world is distilled to my phone screen.

There’s no distance between my beach town

and your city.



A girl is letting go of her pink balloon

and running and running, on repeat.


Outside my window

a starling mimics the sound of my printer,

the cat is a puddle of black, the dog whines

in the kitchen.


A girl in a pink cowboy hat has dropped her bag

and is looking back to it, unable to tell

what is important to hold onto,

and what is not.



I message my friends, post

a status on Facebook, cry in the car,

frown at other drivers. At the traffic lights

we shake our heads in unison.


I share a link to the centre

where they ‘re taking blood to help

the survivors. This moment of hatred

has taken your blood. What can we do,

except offer our own love back,

fresh, as if  from a wound.




2 thoughts on “For Manchester

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