Memories are stirred by the sound of a foreign prayer. It’s 4 a.m.
Listening to the harmony of the tenor voice, hands raise to his ears
Still hearing the rise and fall of the dawn chorus,
Not like the blue birds and swallows chirping
It’s still inky black, people are praying.
Can’t get away,
His eyes, arid like the desert refuse to shut as he focusses on a tatty photograph
Edges frayed from fumbling, colours fading from sun touch and time.
Reaching a hand to sense the comfort of a well worn corner,
There’s a woman, two children, a yappy dog.
Sand slips in wisps outside, sounds like silk moving,
A nightdress, a kiss on his weary head.
Wishes to get away,
The particles in the dry air exanguinate his spirit,
Every day, he sees the tremors of heat glinting with the arms of modern warfare
The sun shines on the brave exacerbating their lethal smiles
Where children play, and people lie.
Home and honour are two polar opposites.
Breathing and grabbing his metal protector, low false god
Will he be martyred toady?
The two children,
The yappy dog,
Smile silently in the moment captured long ago.
For all out heroes out there. Come home safe.
Written for Jingle’s poet rally