03 Jul 2016 – Sonnet

A village, just behind that furthest hill
holds families, now huddled in the night,
all crying out to God the guns be stilled
and spare their children from another fight
that’s gone on from before time can recall.
The soul recoils as mothers mourn their dead –
small candles snuffed – the rage of men an awl
to pierce them through, small wonder fathers dread
the sound of battle coming like a storm
one’s legs cannot outrun, the lightning flash
of drones that strike. So, how are hearts deformed
to strike poor farmers down and leave them smashed
like pots a fool has dashed against a stone.
For such as this, can ‘foreign aid’ atone?