11 November 2012

After the Noise is Over: A War Poem

some days there was
cabbage soup or a
potato, other days,

we rose from the rubble,
from beneath basements,
(the big guns blackened, now, but cold,
after their red-hot efforts)
one wraith reaches for
another, stumbling

and where is my
husband, my brothers,
mother and father,
my baby of three weeks

the sky, stretching grey, above,
strangely quiet now,
holds no answers

landscape, man-made mountain of
broken stones, wind threading
through emptied building-shells,
winding through empty-paned spaces,
(no longer curtain-framed)
irregular forms casting their
shadows, the whine of
the wind says
they are
no more, no more, no more

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