A day after parliament stopped the British from war
and now the heart-stopping news
you are no longer the bearer
of a passport that let you travel far and wide.
Ready to be lugged and thrown, however gently
into the difficult ground you measured
as it was sown, with seed or wound – to flower
only later, for it is near-autumn, and the harvest
coming in is not for you to see or taste.
There will be massacres and weapons inspectors
Sunday, and the year after, and arguably
until time stops working, and it never does.
Only bodies halt, and that is a bitterness
to drink down. Sweet hearts fail. Words go far.
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