Discovering a bird’s nest I ask myself
What war is it that we are talking of
Do we mean the war yesterday or the war today
Perhaps it’s the war of the inevitable
The war of tomorrow the war that’s bound to come
The war of a small country standing against the print on the page
If I had my way I would sit all wars inside an empty oil drum
Let them hammer away my ears have suddenly gone deaf
This little gesture a reminder that
The last command anyone hears
Is the one sending you into combat with the longest sleep
As defender and aggressor this new politic of mine
Means that I sit doing nothing but keeping an eye on my oil drum
Whatever hope is hope is not going to lift the lid
The same as finding a bird’s nest
The eggs hatched and the birds flown
In itself a hopeful sign
But it seems colder than the coldest dawn
Finding the nest why did I put my hand in
Why did my fingers without eyes
Expect to find a clutch of warm eggs
Ronald Rae
Every one of these poems is superb, I bow my head to the artist who can paint so vividly with words, and I love love LOVED that oil drum with the wars banging away inside it… And then for some reason that I cannot explain, had a little weep at the cold, hopeful dawn with its flown clutch of warm eggs… Thank you, Ronald, thank you.
Thank you Carolyn. You are a sensitive soul and that is why you respond to these poems. If only all the world felt the same there would be no wars.