On winter days, with frosted breath,

We wander to the warm, great hall

To see this sacred scene once more.

A mother mourns her perished son,

As mothers do across the world,

While washed-up men, most often old,

Pick off the innocent for sport.

Grouped women, tethered in their grief,

Mop up the personal effects,

Doused in their humid, sodden tears.

Soon, beyond anger, b...

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Gaza: a father beats the floor in grief

As he feels his son’s last desperate breath.

It seems indecent to say any more,

As when, that evil Saturday morning,

A Holocaust survivor was cut down

During a crimson-coloured bout of rage.

I tell myself: this cannot be the best

That humankind has to offer. One day,

The innocent will inherit the Earth,

The puffball types in unifor...

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