© Joyce Parkes
Not Waving, Shaking
Still, vast and shaking the senses,
the tarmac sustains silver flights,
over people, hungry, elsewhere,
abstemiously alive, around a
cultural catastrophe, where war
rained pure pain on children in
cities and shanties and parents
were heard to cry, help, help us
escape from these super sorties.
The grass, bearing binaries, thirsts
for water and cerebral company,
the trees (ochre leaves) beckoning.