A poem inspired by the incredible Hillsborough families and all those striving towards justice for the 96
A family stands on a black, bleak and empty road,
Harsh gravel beneath their feet
Harsher clouds above.
A stinging storm of rain and wind swirls around them.
Bodies lay on makeshift metal stretchers line the road,
Angels’ faces draped in a tainted white cloth,
They are far from home.
Tears fall from disbelieving faces,
The family falls.
They trudge slow and meek steps
Walking through a bitter quicksand;
A biting newspaper flies in their faces,
It scorches them with its menacing, burning heart.
It is burden trying to break their backs,
Just like that gavel cracking like a whip,
Thor’s hammer, a devilish bolt of lightning.
But the meek trudge on, they walk on,
Their hands held tight together.
Our benevolent army,
Bound together by a dream
A dream bruised and blown but not broken.
Their meek voices ring strong and louder,
Shouting stronger and louder,
Like a great football terrace rising and proclaiming
Justice! Justice! Justice!
Their justice is brutal and long,
Winding and twisting on and on,
But it has an end:
This family does not yield despite
The road, the burden and the storm.
They will shed tears of joy and relief
Not of despair and anguish.
Deep Nightmare’s curtain drawn back and thrown aside;
The golden shine of a new morning blazes through.
The silver song of a lark rolls along the road,
The family smiles,
They hold their hands tightly together and walk on.