A Wood in Somerset, Iraq

Back in 2003 I wrote this on the day that Blair and Bush started their disastrous invasion of Iraq. It cam third equal in a competition judged by the late great Adrian Mitchell. Once more, our enjoyment of our peaceful surroundings is contaminated by the bestial actions of men driven by the love of power.

 

A Wood in Somerset, Iraq

Stone still    in opalescent air

trees wait supportively.

Light   splinters on new leaves.

Sun for the seventh day

blesses an English spring.

Two thousand lives away

this anticyclone fires up a storm

that drowns a nightmare world

in ochre light.

The peace I feel

leaning against the powerful fist

that grips the earth, cushioned with moss,

back shaped, kind as an elephant,

finds its reflection in a furious world

of men who sleep walk,

fall on their mother's skin,

give screaming fire,

act and react,

but cannot take it in.

While birdsong fills my head,

sharp as the sunlight

sparking on those tiny points of green.

One hammer headed woodpecker,

knowing no better and no worse,

fires off his rounds.

I should be suffering,

but the world is folded at my side,

its front page images of death

have left off stirring

in this gentle air.

© Richard Lawson

27.3.03