Max----Sums it up- beautifully caught max -more of a horror film than a snap

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From: Poetryetc provides a venue for a dialogue relating to poetry and
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Sent: 14 September 2005 05:45
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Subject: snap 14 Sept 05

 Breaking News

Mid-evening we hear
named on t.v. our suburb -
police report how a father
returning home found
his two sons dead in their beds,
his wife with lacerations
wandering the house.
The street then named -
just round the corner.

Late evening news -
house seen from the street,
between two expensive
fortress-like new ones,
a small older weatherboard
with lawn and picket fence.

I pass it every day with the dog.
We know their black dog, keen
to protect its turf and folks.

Neighbour tells the camera
Œtwo good boys, often saw them
playing. Busy family.
This is the quietest street.¹

Morning paper, front page
(above a Citroen ad) -
Œmother former nurse,
medical condition.¹
Two schoolboys dead,
Œcould not be resuscitated¹,
mother in hospital,
Œserious but not critical,
not under arrest¹.

I pass that way with the dog.
Channel Seven is there,
man with camera on shoulder.
Woman with clipboard,
straight blonde hair.
Dog takes a fancy to them,
they to her.
They have their work.

Other morning paper,
front page all black words, and -
Œher sister arrived,
said ³I knew it. I knew it.²¹
 
Midday news:
police take woman
(her lacerations listed)
from hospital to interview,
ask for DNA samples
from under her fingernails.

Local primary school principal
says he has many counsellors
in the hall and in classrooms
helping distressed parents and children.

Driving in our midday break,
we detour round their block.
Channel Seven is there
in force with now a truck with tall
pole topped with transmitter gear.
What can there be to see, to film?
The news is being gathered.
It¹s still breaking news.
 
Walking the dog towards sundown
I see Channel Nine
has joined the stake-out.
Its transmitter truck has a pole
even more tall.
At six I¹ll see maybe
more of the tragedy.
We have a right to see,
don¹t we?

At six across the state was seen
news-gatherers hustling
police car, a sketch of her
huddled under a blanket,
her lawyer¹s concern,
Œnaturally she¹s suicidal¹,
her husband Œgrim-faced¹
being driven somewhere.
She¹s in secured care.
Two brothers, mere photos
fading from our screen.

Their black dog - no-one left
to protect - is no doubt with someone.
Behind the picket fence
with its bunches of flowers
waits the old family car,
or former family car.
The former mother,
sedated, secure, gives up
to police her DNA.
Her sister¹s cry resonates -
ŒI knew it. I knew it.¹


    Max Richards
    North Balwyn, Melbourne
    14 September 2005