Robert Verdon, #389, Snowing Fire
six-thirty a.m.
near Canberra Airport, on our ex-fireball planet
machine-gun tattoo on the army range
and I’m struggling, disarmed,
to write a piece
about peace (this piece)
for an instant
it’s snowing white fire in November, each flake melting as it
hits the ground —
cold kisses burn my
wrist
as the bullets which
make flesh hot
spear and sear the
air
that air
should be dry as
savoiardi in the sun,
bright as a miracle,
but it is damp and grey;
and so the machine-guns duel,
and the first jet calls,
hoarsely, across the summer sky,
roaring like a primal flame.
Very moving, the struggle paid off with this poem Robert.
ReplyDeleteglad you like it Susan, wasn't sure if it 'worked' :)
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