by Geraldine Mitchell
All week the sea spat rocks
on to the strip of road below;
loosed murderous missiles
under a black and cursing sky;
had ears only for the clack and smack
of its own stones, its battle-hungry roar;
exulted in a private orgy.
This morning the beaches lie exhausted
under a worn-out sky. Violence lingers
in the silent wreckage where sea birds
pick through shredded weed;
crows watch and wait on the fence
beside the road that is no more, eyes
turned from the simmering shame.
(written after the IDF’s onslaught on Gaza, January ’09)