mac dunlop the number 30 bus

the number 30 bus
(9:47 am 7/7/05)

For days
in the cathedral
sun shone through coloured glass
reflecting shades of god
in speckled light
on the pews below.

At the same time,
precisely enough,
the minaret pinnacles
poked into a blue sky,
their gilded tops
sparkling above
rows of shoes
and soft patterned carpets.

Across the road
the synagogue rang
with sacred words and candles.

The Ashram breathed in thought
the Temple's bunting
of garlands and rose petals,
across from the shrine
of incense
and ancestors.

The street,
and its bower trees above
whispered simply
of life,
and life
beyond belief.

at Tavistock Square's edge,
between the houses and cars,
amid the working day,

Precisely there,
thunder to make your ears bleed
sprung from a blinding white flash,

the bus of workers, lovers, partners,
familia, conductors and drivers
in the detonation of a bag
in some fool's hand.

in no god's silence
arose the screams
and cordite stench.

Yes, some say
god loves a fool

rather would love us all

for little more than thought
that god is there somewhere
and in any case
has but little time
if time at all
for revenge destroying souls.

Even where
god does not exist
any doubting Thomas sees,
drawn in blood upon the surrounding walls,
that untimely death
and violent shock
bear silent witness only
to the weakest of us all.

m. dunlop

name: mac dunlop
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title: the number 30 bus