I wake early on tangled sheets To hear the clamorous rancour Of crows darkly calling ‘We are. We are.’ All guttural threat from securely held territory Their certainty. Their belligerence Reminding me of war mongers Politicians on podiums And electorates too timid Or too stupid To complain How the world order seems fragile to me It has disturbed my sleep So I wonder if softer words Can be sent to march Cast upon zephyrs And made to influence Minds that celebrate harmony Prone to extract the ‘r’ from friction And become characters in a global book To hum and sing Forget to shout ‘We are. We are’ As a territorial threat But a hymn For it could even be A lullaby
I take pictures. It’s what I do. Then they sit with me. A living history. Fragments of time I have consumed, shared and stolen. It is a privilege to have these moments at my command. I don’t wish to waste or abuse them. The element of trust is implicit. I honour these people because they have shared a stage with me. These are fractions, splinters of innocence.