by Mike Wroe | Apr 22, 2008 | Poetry
She – is fifteen and terrified. Moist eyes, deep chocolate brown, show graphically the intense agony. Used as a shield by the Iraqi militia. A high velocity bullet ripped through her thigh. Not a bone is broken – praise be to Allah. Her leg cannot be repaired....
by Mike Wroe | Apr 22, 2008 | Poetry
I never contemplated God, as such. No thought, no use, no need of crutch To help me through a day. At night, I thought of our mere transient mortality. My love, my kids, my grandsons too, The centre of my life, my needs. Have I truly helped them? I often think Now,...
by Mike Wroe | Apr 22, 2008 | Poetry
It’s pretty boring here. The sand coloured equipment and tents, everywhere. We’re all dressed the same, blending in, anyway. But not everyone, everywhere. Some of us don’t have M, on our forehead. Some of us don’t have wounds, everywhere. The food is boring here. The...
by Mike Wroe | Apr 22, 2008 | Poetry
I joined the TA for adventure and money – not the prospect of war. The nearest to real harm was nine kilometers – a Scud ‘’nearly’’ hit. At the time none left off the respirators – we would rather sweat. Six hours in shelter under cover or trenches. Never saw...
by Mike Wroe | Apr 22, 2008 | Poetry
South West of Basra in the heat of the desert. An old RAF base, on a runway, at Shaibah. We bake on concrete in Green Eighteen by Twenty fours. The war in Iraq to depose a dictator is over. The fight to influence people to peace is not – yet. We found on June...
