Gunshots echo from the ridge, repetitions so fast
it could be the automatic fire of multiple killings;
at the same time, jets reverberate in the sky to
attack other hushed places of a Sunday morning.
Sitting here is safe, listening to this as intangibles
of what seems the gist from farmers and friends
slaughtering rabbits beyond the rim of that hill.
When the roar of aircraft fades and guns lull too
there is time to adjust to quieting clues –
one plane joins other vapour streaks across the sky,
a distant sound of tourists heading home or off
on holidays abroad where foreigners are tolerable.
When silent beyond the hill there’s little surprise
by what is heard in the taunting from further on.
Clouds are drifting slowly eastwards,
but the snapshots of blue are briefer than before.
An owl screams from a branch under the moon,
but there is no echo across fields.
Rain lashes all night in this winter storm,
but damage is more of the same.
Bordering bushes drop falling leaves,
but birds have nowhere to fly for certainties.
Waves break along the seaside’s shore,
but pebbles are not dragged back in its ebb.
Pruned shrubs are stripped, and their sticks in piles,
but there’s no urge to weave the rustic fencing.
The sun shines on this table of Sunday papers,
but what we read makes no sense any more.
words of fire
the dark past
words as if
or after the
them can be
but not as
dark as what
we are divided
we are denied
we are dying
exceeded the maximum
global requests per minute
for crawlers or humans
and cannot access
even if we could crawl
we are humans
but have exceeded
we are everywhere
but nowhere –
we are in the
speaking better than we
call it falderal
our crawl is
and we have exceeded it