Saturday, September 5, 2015


Home from Helmand; one hand less; nerves a bag of marbles.

Home to cry and cry:
his dreams smelling of cordite;
the slow-motion frame-by-frame passing of the many souls
through his 'cross hairs'.

The fountains spurting,
the terrible fountains spurting;

heads rolling like tumbleweed through a desolate place.

The kneeling fountains spurting!

Wept out,

he hears again the Fajr Prayer: DAWN  -  a new day,

and, from the nursery, comes life teetering  -  forgiving!

she makes a purple sun
out of playdough
...and mends a broken soldier

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