A skein of wild geese shrieking overhead,
migrating to somewhere warmer instead.
Journey rehearsed many times already,
their route is well planned, their progress steady.
But you, war child, your eyes full of sorrow,
just five years old, no hope for tomorrow.
Torn from home in the middle of the night,
fleeing the warzone, no refuge in sight.
Wild geese and war child fighting for their lives,
migrants of necessity, just to survive.
Wild geese are determined, warm climes the prize,
the sojourn elsewhere a welcome reprise.
But for you, war child, escape does not mean,
an end to your nightmare, both lived and seen.
For all of the horrors scorched in your head,
could not be erased unless you too were dead.
Donna Smith lives in Shropshire, England. Her writing has been published in the UK, Ireland and USA.
Sheets marked with crosses have fell in boxes
and withered windswept in this Autumn June
for no unity has been affected, a rain of Brexit
sweeps over a hurricane of doubt, discord brew.
The hack hags muse, stir over media cauldrons
brewing for answers, quick replies; but no magic
they can muster will rebottle the genie ink
that marked the crosses on the ballots
swirled us into the empty centre of the storm.
Breathless we wait while others call “Attention”
plan their futures behind the scene of our distress
as Jacobite Johnson waits for the rebellion and
Nigel, silent, held the bridle, lest the horses bolt
until Gove knocked him from his horse usurping
his ambition to be the new General, Nigel dropped the rein.
Across the ditch that was England’s primal protection
the victims of hate’s conflicts line up and ponder
when they can breach the rampart of the…
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