World’s End
We stroll by the River Shannon
recalling our grandchildren’s visit,
the conversation inevitably turns
to all the dead children in Gaza.
Children, who will never again,
hold the hand of a grandparent on the bank
of a life coursing green river
on its way home to the sea.
Children, who will never again,
laugh, like our grandchildren laughed
as swans cocked their tails
dive-bombing for greens.
Children, who will never again,
feel the joy of a first time,
like that first post-quarantine huddle,
our son and daughter capturing the smiles
and grimaces of a global family
on the slipway of the World’s End.
*World’s End on the River Shannon, Ireland.
Chattels in Rubble
Witness
The ankle boot without a partner.
Witness
The book, Houses of Long Ago bookended by a corner stone.
Witness
The engraving, Paulo Coelho’s Love is just a word until someone gives it meaning.
Witness
The handout pinpointing a semantic map.
Witness
The pill strips un-popped.
Witness
The terrycloth giraffe bleached dry of dribbles.
Witness
The Tina Turner cover screaming One of The Living.
Witness
The velvet slippers aching for the rituals of home.
Witness
The wash bag unzipped on splintered spindles and torn cotton.
Witness
The decapitated teddy bear, heart burnt to black crepe.
Witness
The powdered chattels of the Dead, the Homeless and Maimed.
Radio Interview from Gaza
The doctor in Gaza
draws breath
mouth still tasting metallic slaughter
as she recounts last night’s
surges of the maimed
on makeshift stretchers
and the uncountable dead.
I hear the doctor in Gaza
draw breath
telling how at the end of
a night-to-day shift
nurses like deflated infusion sacs
slide to the hospital floor
eyes closed focusing on breath
their fingertips roll invisible seeds
to be planted in ancestors’ clay.
I hear the doctor in Gaza
draw breath
when the line drops.
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