Tragic loaded tragedy,
as western unites, emphasis
on drawing line despite the bumps,
a common enemy in sight.
But white the ground, so alien
those beyond the common threat.
Change the menu, Chicken Kiev
no longer fits the bill of fair.
It can’t be feathered, yellow, white,
as front line, martyrs, lying down
their lives, not arms, invasion faced,
theatre clown come into own.
It was the day Crimea moved
from history books, studied at school –
though then reduced, that brigade charge,
as too the lady with the lamp –
now power grab and global laze,
those empire embers fanned to flame.
But open arms veil cloak within,
just as elsewhere, no Irish, dogs,
where orthodox means what we know.
The Rouble lies in rubble, bombed;
but refugees ranked in their turn;
democracy trades melanin.
Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church due to Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, including Poetry Potion.
His blog is at https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/