Listen

LISTEN by Gillian Clark

To the chant that tranced me thirty years ago

In Samarkand: the call to prayer at dawn;

To that voice years and miles from then

In the blood-red mountains of Afghanistan;

To the secret placing of a double bomb

At a dark hour in Helmand street;

To the first foot to tread the viper’s head

The scream that ripped the morning’s rising heat;

To the widow’s wail as she crouches in the rubble

Over a son, a brother torn apart.

To a mother numb with shock who locks the door

And sits alone, taking the news to heart;

To the soldier’s words “It’s world war one out here.”

To the rattled air, the growl of the grenade.

To the chanting crowd fisting the foetid air

To the silent town at last parade.

To the ruin ripening in poppy fields;

To barley burnished in the summer air.

To the sound at dusk, cantata of despair;

The holy call become a howl of prayer.