Suicide bombers on the tele.



The light dark and magically wet,
as the brightness of street lamps.

The traffic poles,
go red.

The traffic poles,
go green.


Chatter is warm in the pub.
Old George looks at his watch,
savours his next pint,
that once fought fascism,
with a modesty that could kill.

Son, think of the fresh air,
the kindness of strangers,
the eternal hope of this community.

The tele is turned of,
the band strike up.

The barmaid has coloured ink tattooed over her,
her talons as sharp as ginger.

Their harvest looks fit for another year,
rain is crying gently.
for this love.

~