She was born at 3.41am,
Electronics,
Neon lamps,
Needles,
And mouth masks,
From a place of great peace,  
To loud,
Shambolic fuss,
Open wounds,
Weak,
Not immune,
Drugs forming spirals of inaudible sounds,
Drowning and gargling,
Naked and cold,
Turning blue,
Being wrung out,
Mum crying out,
Wanting to feel flesh upon flesh,
Tear upon head,
Hands clasped in prayer,      
Hoping the girl,
Innocent and young,
Was lying cradled in heaven,
By 11.41.

Casualties of war


Godlike?  No.  Human?  Maybe.
Yet living above the bones of dead babies,
Who fell to their deaths from the top of the world;
The forgotten, the miscarried, the unfortunate boys and girls.


Now the babies lie with bullets;
Sanctity no longer exists.
Once upon a time, we were all for it,
Now we just wish this war would cease.


Fire!  Called the Sergeant as the Germans advanced.
Onward called the General, as the men became entrenched,
In the trenches and fell to their knees;
Some prayed to the lord above, others fell down silently.


Many days and many nights had come to pass
And still Old Blighty was under attack.
Churchill’s calls, spurred on a nation;
Whilst mothers and babies were simply seeking salvation.


The babies cried, as the explosions filled the skies;
The poor boys tardiness meant he had to find somewhere to hide,
And pray he wasn’t killed by the bombs or the bullets.
Just hoping not to die in a watery grave.


For all that’s left in the bottom of your rivers,
Is babies bones and war souvenirs


(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.