All I read is hatred, all I watch is murder.
I could enumerate.
Both the boredom and the mayhem.
With fear, nothing is new.
Except the uniform, and the fact
that we already had World War Two.
That it tastes foreign in a bad way
when I stone up with my old book
The clouds make criminal shapes.
The bees fall on the poppies,
the sky is not blue.
My eye, close to the ground,
spies your lovely shape lower
in the green grass of here.
In the wet heat, in blood, in tear,
not just us but the hole
spreading wide and far.
The sirens gossip.
The waters recede, uncovering
our rusty old car.
The clouds make animal shapes.
the bees feed on the poppies, drunk,
little poets praising the barmaid.
the traffic light sways in the breeze
and finally has power.
The thieves disappear
carrying our few trinkets that sparkle
bright in the new light.