A bleak view. A stretch of empty beach
where we once sat;
like chalk across
a blackbird sky, the seagulls screech.
A chill creeps across the sand.
Is there no way back you ask.
I take the words for what they are:
a half meant signal sent
from no-mans land
We are countries out of reach
* * *
Places washed by sea;
places that men may trample,
stamp across with heavy feet,
batter with their bombs
and bullets, shatter
in staccato sound,
still go free.
The victor is behind them,
the gentle wash across the sand,
a rhythm they cannot change,
soothing away their furrows
from the forehead of the earth
with a mothers light relentless hand.
(Imtiaz Dharker from Postcards from God, Bloodaxe Books)
