Listen to the olive groves whispering
in the dusk, more insistent
with each shaking of the ground,
strong voices not to be drowned,
not to be broken, even as each bough
is splintered, veiled in dust.
Harvesters of hate, you must
learn how the wind gathers up their words,
against your will, under your noses,
sets them free to cross check-points,
searching round each angle of the wall,
whistling through each crack
impossible to hold back.
Here we sit before the fire,
plates full, glasses raised.
The curtains are drawn tight
The conversation intelligent, polite,
but nothing can displace
the windows’ stubborn rattle,
well-travelled winds arriving,
infiltrating unsought for words,
unbidden stories of trees at battle.
Another one set off by a CD, this time '...for the ghosts within' Robert Wyatt, Gilad Atzmon and Ros Stephen. I find constant inspiration in the poetry and music of others. The photograph shows a Palestinian olive grove set ablaze by Zionist settlers.