War

 

I will call it ‘A War-torn Landscape’:

an empty room: black, cavernous;

occasional thuds, voices, cries, remote like

the piping of sea birds faint in ocean thunder.

Centre of the room a mother weeping, her

bomb-blasted tears streaming down her face,

the grille of her teeth set into a vent of anguish,

her figure slack as peel from a knife.

I will tell you that she has been told of her son’s death

and that you must console her.

And now I must tell you that you will find no words,

and, anyway, she will not see you.