The Missing (feat. Roger Robinson)

(For the victims of the Grenfell Tower fire disaster)

As if their bodies became
lighter, ten of those seated
in front pews began to
float, and then to lie
down as if on
a bed. Then pass down the
aisle,
as if on a conveyor belt of
pure air, slow as a funeral
cortege,
past the congregants, some
sinking to their knees in
prayer.
One woman, rocking back and
forth, muttered, What about me Lord,
why not me?

The Risen stream slowly, so
slowly out the gothic doors
and up to the sky, finches
darting deftly between them.

Ten streets away,
a husband tries to hold onto the
feet of his floating wife. At times
her force lifts him slightly off the
ground,
his grip slipping. He falls
to his knees with just her high-
heeled shoe in his hand.
He shields and squints his
eyes as she is backlit by
the sun.

A hundred people start floating
from the windows of a tower
block; from far enough away
they could be black smoke
from spreading flames.