MORNING THE THIRD
march 22
She wakes trembling, reaches in the half light
for the bedside water jug, decants, drinks greedily
the hours long vigil has taken its toll.
she draws back curtains, opens blinds, doors, windows
to the morning cool. Outside a single star, a fading moon
the quiet quiet, air a street lamp as brilliant
as on any ordinary dawning
on the river flat a sea of mist
in the vacant block the tall trees
Later, there'll be bird song, later still
another evening of watching, listening, analyzing
the evidence laid out
about a war in a far away country
no blood, no corpses, no pieces of corpses
scanty news of death count
colourful fireworks and sound affects aplenty
and everything topped with the soothing syrup
of carefully self censored words
packaged and sanitized
home delivery
for instant consumption.