By Stuart McFarlane
GAZE ON GAZA
Gaze on Gaza; and weep. See the child in A and E, the child, alone, in A and E. See the man who stares, the man who only stares. See the woman who screams, the woman who only screams.
The bloody bandage, discarded limb, the blasted street, all rubble. Thick smoke billowing; low down a tepid sun that strains to shine.
See another bloodied child, the mother who still screams, and a father who only stares. See what may not be unseen. Try, if you can, to avert your eyes. Gaze on Gaza. Gaze on Gaza. And weep.
A DAY LIKE ANY OTHER
A birth of light on the skyline, as keen as a glinting knife, seeps through the sky like red wine, a sweet celebration of life. So the sun rises at its preordained time, the world awakes, night is gone, as it continues its inevitable climb in a sky far too blue for the Somme. And a mutilation of light and sound destroys the day, destroys my brother, shells, shrapnel tear up the ground on a day in France; a day like any other.
Once the days fell gently, like apples from a tree, and all our summers gathered there. Older now, the kitchen, my mother here with me, where burning butter permeates the air. A bicycle on a country lane, church bells pealing, a looming shadow, then a doorbell ringing, a face, not quite a smile, eyes afraid of feeling, a shaky hand, a telegram and the news that it is bringing. And a conflagration of bells and butter destroys the day, destroys my mother. And my time, too, will come; complete and utter. On a day in France; a day like any other.
Stuart McFarlane is now semi-retired. He taught English for many years to asylum seekers in London. He has had poems published in a few online journals.
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