Friday, December 16, 2016

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.


  1. Very moving, the struggle paid off with this poem Robert.

  2. glad you like it Susan, wasn't sure if it 'worked' :)


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