by Bill Cunningham
A small tent
A gift from a brother
Brought against great odds
Over submarine infested seas.
Tweed bank; Border country
Relaxed by rippling water
I watch a hunters moon rise;
I can almost forget the war.
No sirens sound
No bombs fall
No bloodied bodies;
“All Quiet”
in my safe haven.
Not always so;
These hills, these valleys
Rang with the cry
Of women and children,
Priests, monks and nuns.
Led by that great misnomer,
Edward, First Knight of Christendom
Plantagenet savagery
Bore down on simple folk.
The hills remain silent
As do the walls of
“Bare Ruined Choirs.”
Protected only by thin cotton
I sleep sound.
