Seventy-nine children appear in my dreams,
knocking on my milk-white door.
Natasha, Luke, Kelly, Leigh,
Nathaniel, Carwyn, David, Rhys,
Liam, Zachary, Gareth
and sixty-seven more looming
in the thick white fog outside
for someone to answer, let them in,
listen to what they have to say,
something about the beauty of ancestors,
something about the rule of choices,
something about the resilience of the soul,
and its movement to the light when we let go.
But inside, I am with the parents.
We are trees which cannot reach out,
our branches broken
so that there will be no more hanging.
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