Contemplation 5
The bus crash happened years ago,
The slipping wheels in glassy snow,
Two dozen injured, five stone dead,
The weathered slope their final bed.
The bus still stands upon that knoll,
The vehicle stands rusting, whole,
The grass and weeds a spreading hair,
Throughout the tomb, an eerie air.
The driver also died that day,
His final feelings — sheer dismay,
The bus careening into trees,
The children making frightened pleas.
The townsfolk raced to offer aid,
To every child that hope displayed,
Policemen and some nurses too,
Two dozen hurt, and five cut through.
The town was cast in mournful bent,
At those young souls to heaven sent,
The funeral en masse so bright,
The candles waving in the night.
Sometimes the parents of those lost,
Will tarry there to count the cost,
The memories like precious stones,
The pain of loss which love bemoans.
They walk up to the bus — the shrine,
They cry, they weep, they sit, they pine,
For loss remains the deepest scar,
A cursed plight, a dark death star.
The future years seem lustreless,
Bereft of that unique caress,
A budding life, in tender years,
Dashed into death, a brand that sears.
The mark of grief a bitter spell,
That even God can scarcely quell,
The hopes and good will muted short,
Impermanence so sadly taught.
The bus it stands there still, today,
Next to the lavender that sway,
The ghosts of children playing near,
In death’s bright house, bereft of fear.
AD Lovkis, 23/08/25
adamdaniel 