It used to be that we heard it in the privacy of our own home
A police man, perhaps, checking first with the neighbours
That this was the right door on which to knock

Or maybe a telephone call late at night
From a phone that shrilled through silence with fear
Broke the night into a blackness without end

Or a letter delivered late by the postman
News written, then read, taken in slowly, processed
Days already passed, the event already made distant

Instead, now, we hear the news everywhere
At bus stops, on train stations, in queues
As a mobile sounds, inappropriate ring tone, 24/7

And now we have nowhere to hide our grief
The tears that we once shed in private homes
Spill out in front of strangers onto pavements

We stand in bars and public houses, shops, supermarkets
We leave stains on the carpets and floors of places
Not suited to the delivery of any news, particularly bad