Thursday, 5 April 2012

From the West Bank

So I scene it, boys of fifteen
broken by their exile,
condemned to wander
foreign footpaths, wretches
driven under concrete:
cold and safe, safe and cold.

I also saw a wanderer’s
return begin, begin.
It began in a baking tray,
bubbling away like so much
shoulderfat, spreading
like a shepherd’s grin.

When concrete grey wears
thin, it seems we recall
the art of elegy: those
who defend my country
shall fall; I who wander
(they say) am seer of all.

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