They have dramatised Ann Frank’s Diary,
so I’m bound to think claustrophobia
when I gaze through a clear bag to green grapes;
heads of pulp, cheek to cheek on the way to…
Crowds – where do they go home to ?
Where did those grapes swell in the sun?
What was in the soil of their uptake?
On what dates did they juice from a downpour?
Am I daft to consider each flesh head,
as my innocent wanting teeth clamp down?
Am I daft to pity a shuddering child
on a gurney on a strip of dry earth?
Winter soil is stunned here,
and there until some common sense of thaw.