Sunday, 31 July 2011

Father's Fighting Wasps





Father’s fighting wasps,
Maybe two hundred,
Wielding a power-hose
And dressed in a one-piece
Electrician’s water-proof uniform,
His blue statue stares down
The trimmed green fern,
The battle cries of forced jets
Bounce off the cobwebbed edges,
Sending death’s debris across the tight air,
Stung twice the day before,
His wounds fuel the war,
Hurt, he’ll carry on
To try protect his only family,
A few, dazzled and wet, surveys
In shocked suspense the enemy,
Perhaps attack, protect the nest,
Admit defeat and flee, the rest
Will follow his great lead,
But instead they dive inside
To see what’s left of their abode,
Shattered bodies, drenched walls,
The broken wings and severed limbs
Stuck to sap, terror, horror,
Hundreds dead, none have fled,
They cling instead onto themselves
With human understanding,
Accepting nobly their mistake,
Surrendering to honour only,
And my father, lord of war,
Having never hurt another,
Wears a frown inhuman,
Swapping roles in nature
Over war’s disgusting roulette table,
And I barely recognise the man.
I see more of him in them.
Father, my father: two hundred dying wasps.

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