Now somewhere there are thousands of hands writing.
Now with pens, pencils; sticks.
Now a gun is fired, once.
Now someone is stepping into a train, into a courtroom, into moonlight.
Now a brush is held steady against railings, shadow moves across a field.
Now you have to be quiet, it is night-time, even if you cannot sleep.
Now they are pumping, pumping oil, pushing drugs.
Now there is a death, unnecessary.
Now a spider’s web forms in your back-garden.
Now as you put out washing.
Now someone looks into a face, wondering what to say.
Now there is no more time.
Now a fox watches, runs.
Now swings in the park are left in twilight.
Now somewhere thousands of hands are writing.