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!
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