Horses
We sat to watch the Grand National.
We bit our nails, we ate our meals, hushed
As the coverage panned out of our screens. Behind
The screen, a thousand miles away, the ground had
Rumbled and the white horses had begun their gallop.
We sat awed as the horses reached the finishing line.
The horses were no longer white; black with the stench of death
As wood and horse collided with startling speed, we thought
Not of the lost but of the scale of nature’s Pandora
That does not infringe on our hazardless lives.
So are we concerned or are we voyeurs?
We the desensitised to the Earth’s bitter seed,
That disperses with no warning, wrecking homes and lives,
Whilst we think not of the ocean’s murder but instead
Its mighty power, we the seekers disaster porn.
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