The ghosts of the 14th

I locked the door

and my ghost and I

walked down the unlit stairs.

We walked in silence down All Saints

murmured encouraging words to each other

as we walked down Lancaster

and became engulfed in silence once again

 as we reached Ladbroke Grove.

Somewhere half way down,

between the tower and the spire,

ghosts floated restlessly,

circling above the silent masses

all of whom were dressed in green.

My ghost rushed to embrace

the swarming cloud of silvery ghosts

that floated around in circles

twisting and turning in agony

yet touching and stroking one another

softly and tenderly,

sharing their love,

sharing their fears and frustrations,

sharing their anger and disbelief…

Looking for a way

to escape the hold of gravity

and the darkness

between the tower and the spire.

The people below met in silence

all of them aware that this was not their moment

it was the time for their restless ghosts,

a moment in time in which

the ghosts are given the opportunity to speak,

a moment in time in which

the ghosts are given the opportunity to be heard,

a moment in time in which

the ghosts might possibly be set free.

As we marched along the streets

the traffic stopped

the air stopped

the beat of the city stopped

and the marching crowd stopped every now and then

listening to the silent

thunder

of the ghosts,

letting the ghosts soak in the surroundings

they have almost forgotten

letting the ghosts of children run barefoot

along the empty Grove in January

After an hour of walking in silence

I set off back home

turning once or twice to see

If my ghost had bid farewell to his friends

and is following me

or have they suddenly

figured out how to escape gravity

and the darkness between the tower and the spire.

But even before I reached St. Marks

he was floating above my head

urging me to go home

where we will be alone,

away from the noise

away from the lights

away from the world

away from it all

sitting in the darkness

sipping single malt

talking to each other

as if there is no one else in this world.

As we talked, he surprised me by asking:

‘What is it like to be alive?’

I thought for a long time,

contemplating,

letting the question roll around the echoing waves

and finally settle in my restless mind

finding a place to throw its anchor

if only until the next storm

After a while I replied with a sigh

‘I have no idea.

I’ve been dead long time.’

We sat in silence

for the whole of next week

drawing the curtains

not allowing the world to speak.

Both of us were hoping next month will be better -

he would find a way to escape gravity

and I’ll stumble across a ray of light.

(first draft)

Sunčan P. Stone

North Kensington, 14^th – 16^th January 2018

Support

 continues 15 months on. 

It was the 14th of the month again

 and we walked, silently, down Ladbroke Grove, into the late summer silent evening

 and afterwards I went to the Monarch to set my mind free and listen to some Moon Balloon (I chose to show you the bass player of the band, because I feel whimsical today and because I can)

 and the Beach for Tiger (the drummer, for reasons why him and not anyone else from the band, see above)

and Voksal (need I explain?)

One year on...

 ...and it hasn't got any easier for the people

nor has it got any easier for the fire fighters

but the people are there to remember

 and support

and give their love 

to all who need it

and we are determined to keep on marching ....

Solitude in North Kensington

I was half asleep as I heard the wood gently crackling in the fire

 dreaming about the stories my grandfather used to tell me at bedtime

about the adventures he and his two best friends used to have while camping in the desert

telling each other stories and laughing in the good old times, in a century long gone

I opened my left eye as I smelt plastic and rubber burning

for a moment I thought I was 14 once again, back in the camp in Lebanon

where we burnt old tyres and our plastic toys - that we loved so dearly only a month ago 

but suddenly felt no need for - to keep that little warmth escaping our bruised bones

I opened both of my eyes as the thick grey smoke came rolling through the windows 

that I always leave open during the warm London summer,nights

letting in the fresh air and the lively sounds of a town 23 floors below

reminding me of everything I left in a world so far away, in a century long gone

I heard someone in the distance yell:Help! Water! Water! 

and I thought I must be dreaming all this smoke and crackling fire 

I was back underneath the rubber dinghy that had just capsized

with 79 people on board, 75 of whom were in the water for their first and last time 

I leaped out of bed when I saw the fire flash underneath my bedroom door

I opened the door, fleeing for my life once again, leaving everything behind as I did years ago

I rushed from the flat and hit the stairs drowning in smoke, a clear memory of the bombs and fire 

and people screaming, sirens waling, from a time long gone rushing through my head 

The last in the line of survivors in my family, 

this time I woke up to catch my death. 

This is a story from a notebook full of started stories and semi-finished poems linked to that day, that I constantly carry around with me and none of which I seem to be able to finish. After long months I decided to post this excerpt here, just to put at least something from the little black notebook out there. As the walks, everything in the notebook is in remembrance of the people who perished during that night.

The monthly

silent walk for Grenfell, joined by the fire fighters who were there on the day. After trying to find a way of doing something to support the people affected, my dad came up with an excellent suggestion and I have already started working on it. Love to you all. 

We can all

do our little bit to help. 

Our demands

are simple. Justice and answers!