When a woman falls in the street, an obliging sky abandons its woes relating to writer’s block and supplies unsolicited tears because she’s not just someone who got trampled in a great metropolis, even though technically she is, because the impact caused her body to high five the ground, but it should also be noted that she’s gracious without the constant need for gentleness, has traversed incomparable continents of contentment but having said all that she’s no longer ‘Mum’ with her tough exterior feathers hiding a snuggly puffin in her handbag for her toddler who just turned two that the emergency worker will find and melt into hot, heavy tears as he holds it away from the carnage, because there’s so much blood and such little beauty, because it’s clear that she wasn’t made to be forgotten like a facsimile taken at face value, summarised in an evening paper with the blithe consideration of a detached mind that will never journalise anything remotely important like - what can be done to fecundate our souls with more understanding of a fellow human's inherent splendour?
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