Famine

 

'Hey,' the child shouts. 'I'm sick of fish fingers.

Take them away – I want more chips.'

Face pudgy from fatty foods,

Eyes glinting with threatened tears.

The discarded offering is scraped into the bin.

'Never mind – plenty more in the fridge.'

 

Under the cruel sun the wizened child squats,

Busy black flies dotting his face.

Death creeps up softly behind,

Waiting, watching

As the child scrabbles for grains spilt in the pitiless dust,

Blank eyes too listless for tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

©1998 Barbara Godfrey & Black Cat Communications
All rights reserved