It’s strange how we view war from far away.

Distance lends itself to rage and anger,

To dollops of easy indignation,

Fuelled by being powerless, I suppose.

For those on the spot, it’s the practical,

The workaday, which occupies the mind:

Filling in the forms, feeding survivors,

Visiting hospital, booking the hearse.

The task of clearing out dead neighbours’ homes

Damps down the anger. At least for a while,

Because it remains: circling, festering,

Nagging at your conscience, and competing

With the grief and numbness of your mourning.

One day, its revenge will be terrible.