In the great tempest of eighty-seven,
Mum and Dad remembered milk bottles
Bouncing and blowing down their quiet street.
Incredibly, none of them were broken,
Though hordes of healthy trees were smashed to bits.
But soldiers do not escape so lightly:
One bullet shot is easily enough
To shatter for good their unprotected shield.
The broken glass has to be collected
And put in dustbins, spruced up for the task.
Sooner or later, blood spurts through thin gloves,
As sulky troops, bent over at gunpoint,
Neglect to take proper care. Why should they?
Only hurricanes treat them with respect.
The wind does not tell lies. Humans do that.
Thu 30th Mar 2023 17:23
John, Uilleam, Stephen and Keith: I appreciate your kind comments.
And thanks to Steve, Hélène, Manish, Graham, Nigel, Rudyard and Purplemoon for liking this one.
Wed 29th Mar 2023 14:11
Brilliant, Stephen 👏
Wed 29th Mar 2023 11:11
This poem forms a collage of thoughts. The final words are those whose impact stays with the reader. "The wind does not tell lies. Humans do that". Today we live in a swamp of deceit in which many no longer can find the truth.
Thank you for this
Uilleam Ó Ceallaigh
Wed 29th Mar 2023 08:41
Thank you Stephen.
Amid the hurley-burley of opinion and speculation in news reports, it's easy to forget that each and every one of those soldiers is an individual, the son of a mother who is in a permanent state of anguish and grief.
Wed 29th Mar 2023 08:29
Nice conflation, Stephen.
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