A bemused would be poet wandering
Through the surreal Jardin de Paris,
Wondering at the words he sent
Spiralling into the blue,
Remembered then the whistling
Of bullets through the air,
The crackle of the gunshots,
Remembered taking pot shots
At rabbits in a Hampshire field.
But these were not aiming
At fleeing animals, these
Picked out ragged boys at random,
As they prospected for stone,
Balancing between life and death
On the edge of their known world.
Theirs were not whoops of triumph or joy,
But shrieks of panic and despair
And seeping through the rags,
It was non-fictional blood
That matted their hair.
This is no place for dreamers.
There is no poetry here,
Lost amongst the petrified,
In an infinite landscape of fear.
This flows from the words of Michael Morpurgo in his fine Richard Dimbleby Lecture for the BBC last night. No matter how bleak things are, we must cling to the hope that walls can crumble and tyrants fall.