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Young Joe stood with a photograph set in a silver frame
he’d never met the man in it but he had the same name.
The photograph was black and white, the man stood next to Mummy
who wore a loose and flowing dress to hide her ‘baby’ tummy.
He stared through glass at empty space – he would be ten today,
his Mum this morning had been sad and went to church to pray
for the departed soul of Joe, this bloke she called his Dad
who died when two planes bought down towers, as part of a Jihad.
He heard the slamming of the door closing behind his Mum,
outside upon on the stone wall pots of red geraniums
matched the trees in autumn colours burgundy, red, grape and gold -
all basking in the sunshine after long, dark evenings cold.
Today he knew was special – they were going to catch a train
to the city, where the twin towers fell – a place of death and pain,
he understood the reason – his Dad no forgotten hero
but a father unrecovered – one who rested in Ground Zero.
This little bloke was only ten, he wondered if he’d see
a Ghost Train full of those souls lost? Would he know his Daddy?
There’d be so many people there from all across the land -
their President would be there and perhaps he’d shake his hand.
They said his Dad was standing amongst giants brave and tall
a fire-fighter lost forever - when those twin towers did fall.
Joe had put in his pocket a handful of beach sand
to scatter on Ground Zero – his Dad would understand.
Maureen Clifford © 09/11
see some scribbles here - http://scribblybarkpoetry.blogspot.com.au/