Two Minutes Silence

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Hastings is bustling.

Only teenagers and night workers
are still in bed.

My new cardigan
compliments that
circa nineties look
I was going for.

The rain starts.

I follow the herd
Priory Meadow.

The centre is light and full of sound.

Wet soles squeak
to Ed Sheeran’s
new Pop ballad.

The music stops.

An announcement is made
in that precise, nasal accent
all Americans think we have.

I walk towards the nearest bench,
playing musical chairs
with the man next to me.

Everyone stands in silence as the clock chimes.

I am leaning forwards slightly.
Elbows on knees, hands joined,
as I hold my wallet in front of me.

In my line of view
two shop assistants giggle.

I hear trolleys being pushed behind the scenes.

I hear children being shushed by parents.

I hear distant gulls.

I hear

Two minutes last a decade.

We remember those who died
so that we can be free.

Music starts again and people move
as if switched back on.

I am

of my purchase.

I continue on my way,
in search of something more.


Photograph by David Marcu

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Lucas Howard

When I was seven I started copying poems out of a book and telling people they were mine. When I ran out of good ones to copy, I had to start writing my own. I have been performing and organising nights on the UK spoken word scene now for over seven years and am most of the way through writing the first draft of my first novel 'Zedlist', which is serialised on here. As the story is in fetal form, any critiques or suggestions are most welcome.

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