There it is again that distant gaze powerful, it pierces faraway sandstorms looking for the memory of where that long lost piece of you may be buried and the Afghan sun can’t even burn your eyes because you’ve stared so long, so often.
That subtle curl of lip and your eyes wander softly back in to the room amongst the lads, lagers and a few over-under dressed lasses.
There’s no sand here and you know the rain is always close-by – like us – we just hope we can help to find you some hard-earned peace.
Thanks for taking the time to read this poem. It’s dedicated to my friends who’ve spent time fighting for the country on faraway shores.
Verdant missiles Launching through the cracks Of grim concrete slabs The colour of the Cold War And dictatorships Seasonal insurrection Starting early this year The revolution is here – And the climate changed.
I wrote this piece as an experiment. I would love to hear your thoughts.
we mourned all summer when they decimated the woodland murdered ash, oak, sycamore & beech all in the pursuit of profit the lives lost from the hedgerow collateral damage to make capital gains no concern for refugees concrete foundations poisoned the rich earth bracken & bleeding brambles scythed down by strong yellow tanks cheerful and bright grim reapers sullying soil and sod bricks, mortar, slate & glass now occupying forces and in final insult they named the new avenues and boulevards after the casualties they inflicted not in memoriam but as a warning that in wars between man and nature man will win because man’s nature is death.