On the Verandah
Outside on the verandah, the night-air
is sweet, the moon is fair, the wind blows
warm across the desert sands.
Tonight, southwest of Kandahar,
the night sky will gleam with the scintilla
from a martyr-bomber’s detonation.
Helicopters will stream like tremulous wasps
into Zhari district, ferrying back remains
from a shattered infantry battalion.
The wind sweeps in from the Sea of Faith,
the sound of human misery mixed in
with its turbid ebb and flow.
There on the verandah, a boy sets down
a bowl filled to the brim with apricots,
fresh from Damascus, fragrant as revenge.
Labels: War and Remembrance