I walk these streets
Where hate
Emanates
From grime ridden bricks
Loins girded,
Thumb nervously hovering
Above expectant safety-catch.
Curtains twitch
Cold eyes stare
From roof pitch,
Behind me
Young men
Soil Uniforms.
Tremors disturb the silent air
A crack that sounds
As if the earth is broken
Splits the night,
A young man loses breath
And sight.
We gather round
The only sound
That of rocks and stones
Which now pound us,
We, who are bound
To protect, and serve.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
