Dread

I give the finger to the fighter jet
And the dark cloud it’s flying through.
I’m lucky. I’m not either side of
The Gaza border filled with dread
At bombs or soldiers or machine gun
Fire, afraid of breathing too loudly
Or following the rituals of my chosen path.

The warmongers tell me I should
Be greateful for the polluting jets
In the English sky because they
Defend me. I am grateful for this
Relative peace, but not for war
Machines in this or any other sky.

Think of the hospitals the world
Could build, of the hungry the
World could feed, the endless list
Of good we could do without wars.

R 31/10/2023 18:14