The refugee's tree, Garden & Letter to the past
by Jill Jones
[ poetry - january 04 ]
The refugee's tree
It is a long time before razor wire
floating towards the country of Love
to forget about the deeps of wound
what happens in a cut or groove.
Habib now hangs from his resting tree
there is his body to tell
underneath is the street's electricity
all a nation's nerves can barely still.
Producing the daily pay, food to flesh
while running from time's little gun
makes it harder to look up into
this charred scarf, the despair of men.
Gods in valleys know all about war
nothing in Afghanistan has been overcome
as the conferences in this edgy world
will not accept the peace play thrown.
When does truth of hope come undone
in the repeat glow of an ancient morn
the terror card can only take you so far
what does it take to be allowed Return.
Habib wanted the safe home
all that looks ordinary in some eyes
it seems dusty and overcast with cares
but in all that is a makeshift Paradise.
Never said is the wound.
Expectation always remains, taking the night.
A false rain drapes the garden.
Does one love remain in the many?
There was excellence, & rumour & endings.
It is beyond this garden now.
A story dances across the floor.
Expectation takes on the night.
Each time is a different visit of the same.
Floorboards are beyond repetition.
Dust curls into silence.
Night twitches in expectation, taken too far.
Because of what was said, it wasn't said.
A devoted rain washes the silence.
The many in one is the kiss.
Expectation always remains.
Letter to the past
You keep unfolding
- I remember that -
a book, a cover
gifted to the minutes
- I don't remember that -
kicking the door
free to forget, if
Still, yours and you