War in the evening

Three birds stare from a soot pinnacle

fresh smoke drifts toward the tree line

sunflowers, stems stripped, weep monochrome

water drips after long running cracks

the neighbour throws furniture from the fourth-floor window

flames flicker hollowing buildings

all morning the bells have rung on and off

everything sounds different to yesterday.

We are ready for stars.

‘…see the world in flashes,

memory is like making your own film.’ She hopes.  

He hears the noise of dogs trapped in their hotel pen

wants to help but feels the closing heat

holds to belief nothing can be done

searches out a coat, does not find one, leaves.

The roots are thick arteries feeding an oak heart.

It survives. But tongue out the horse is burning.

The swallow’s beak clamps a four-legged spider.

The stew boils when it should simmer.

Taking its broken sword,

the marble hand falls for this ground.

The mask is terror through iterations:

a plan, a preparation, a warning, a finale-

they look to the sky

they hold their fat headed babies

they shield

the dove screams as it vanishes into shadow.

The black door has been pushed open

the fractured blade climaxes a hoof

the severed marble grip is the tortured glove:

it holds the centre of the floor.

A burning light is permanently cast.

Somehow the oxen pair endure.

I have been here before.

‘…don’t ever give up beauty.

We’re fighting so that we can have things like this,

so that we can have beauty again.’ She paraphrases.

Distant flashes within the landscape mark ends

the foreground is twisted red metal and sheered rock

if you believe; then belief’s awful work is done here

the landscape is barren of all but that rock

and metal and broken furniture from the fourth floor

and those bright ends.

‘The birds are killed-all are killed,’

he says, ‘we could hear the people moaning.

But there was too much rubble,

the fires were increasing and getting closer.

We had to abandon them.’

Remember the birds,

they flap and squabble and feast

(as we laugh ourselves to death)

one holds a bullet in its mouth,

this film is of doves under nets.

‘I saw a pair of wings circling distant woods.’

She remembers, ‘I didn’t imagine

flights over market day.’

Surprising myself with a smile

it is early afternoon

I place our kettle on the stove top

the sound of Sunday bells won’t change

they toll across the city’s rooves and streets.

The birds fly down and climb in through the horse’s mouth

joining all the living and those unable to escape

flapping and mummified alike

when the bomb went off

they were scattered as feathers

flesh-

bone-

blood-                                                                                                                             across the plaza.