A low, rumbling silence,
The quiet after the storm,
Thunder sounds, and disappears.

Audible silence is rarely achieved,
A synchronised aggregation,
Of 100,000 grieved,
Mouths move but do not speak,
Out of nature's mouth,
Not a word of hope leaks,
Distress clings to faces,
Hands cling to hands;
People walk around in silence,
Assisting injured in the street,
Passers-by with tears in their eyes,
Whose gaze you shall never meet,
But then a man runs amongst the rubble,
Observing public run amok,
And whilst havoc wast bestowed,
With a mighty tremor-shock,
This man is strong and determined,
He runs with purpose and care,
A shroud of dust billows,
From his rescued child's hair.
Placed carefully into an adults arms,
Tears streaming down a dry face,
A parent's one and only wish,
Beyond fleeing from this place,
But there is much to do this day,
And tomorrow, next week, next year,
Suppression of a solitary journey,
To banish panic and fear.
For money floods in from left,
From right,
And help is on its' way,
We all aim to make the difference,
And turn Haiti to colour,
From grey.

© Alex Frost 2010