by | Feb 19, 2014 | Poetry | 0 comments

In tattered robes didst lie face down in sand
A choice one makes with nowhere left to run
I’d noticed him when gaining upper hand
Now ‘playing possum’ ‘neath the baking sun
I gauged his years could all but total ten
Whilst posing prone, no movement did I see
Yet here he was in midst of war with MEN
Should I engage, or choose to let him be
“This is his land” I hear my conscience call
When shadows play across his form; I freeze
I try to make up ground in urgent crawl
Tho’ wary of known threat from IEDs
As Buzzards screech and hover up above
My hopes as always, lie within the Dove


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