Five Hours

Prologue - Helmand Province, Afghanistan

The Artery Opens

Sleep-scented farmers,
small among your blooms,
too poor to grow food,
it’s time to feed the fat man
and his greasy gun,
to kiss the ground he walks upon,
good rich dirt
soaked in honey sun.

Heavy seeds sink in seas
of red and white.
Lest we forget, you remember
the flag-pole rag of your surrender.

On trade winds
spiraling smoke turns,
'time is the fire
in which we burn.'


The First Hour - 5 a.m. Bolan Pass, Baluchistan Plateau, Pakistan

Threading the Needle

North-East and down
capillary canyons,
a blush on brittle skin,
on folds of ageless flesh.
Following the track marks
worn into the earth.
Dirt and stone,
finger to thumb
pulling the thread
through the eye of the needle.

Wash the dust
from linen brows,
one by one the voices rise
in the yawning dawn,
fleeting graffiti chatter
hangs off smooth curved walls.
Blood and bone,
wind and sand,
following the life line
in the palm of God’s hand.

The coast tomorrow,
South-West and up
into the dusk dimmed
womb of the world
to let loose your souls
in small wooden boats.
Kneel and pray
for wave and crest,
each safe journey
is worth its weight in death.


The Second Hour - 5 a.m. Ararat valley, Armavir, Armenia

A Young Man on his Horse

Across the gentle
shake of green,
billowing rise

a young man
on his horse,
rides.

In the purple
shade of
mountain side

the tango
rhythm
races by,

a young man
on his horse,
rides.

Flaring hair,
staring
eyes,

with this run
he’ll eat
tonight,

a young man
on his horse,
rides.


The Third Hour - 5 a.m. Moscow, Russia

A Matter of Honour

Sleep now,
your blood is flowing with the river
and fear slips with the rippling wake
as it probes the shore
for one last place to break.
It’s the way of things.

Sleep now,
no-one will be expecting you home,
the shutters are locked, the door is barred
and silence fills the rooms
where you once lived.
You know how family is.

Sleep now,
the market will still be open tomorrow
another hopeful will take your place,
looking for a new angle
in an old trade.
Business is business.

Sleep now,
your worries are over for good
never again will they weigh you down,
unlike the concrete boots
you're wearing now.
It’s a matter of honour.


The Fourth Hour - 5 a.m. Helsinki, Finland

A Rusty Boat Just Above Sunset

Just above the sunset
in shallow colour
and watery light,
the freezing sea
keeps us clean.

Now and then,
a hull balances
on the horizon,
a straight line
through weaving
silverfishing boats.

The untroubled
bar glow flickers
in the harbour
as we watch
the rusty boat go by.


The Fifth Hour - 5 a.m. Amsterdam, The Netherlands

The Old Canal House

By the banks of the Grand Canal,
in shoes of tar the old man sleeps now.
Dark bricks brushed and high hooks slung,
dressed for the Queen’s birthday in the morning sun.

There’s an ache in the belly
of the old man, a tight clenched fear
for the rancid meal that sits there
undigested, souring the air.

He creaks as he breathes for the stitch in his side
is pulled tight to the end of the line.


Epilogue – London, UK

The Artery Closes

Sleep-scented dreamers,
small inside doorways,
too poor to buy food,
it’s time to feed the need
and the greedy dealer,
to kiss the ground he walks upon,
cold damp dirt
soaked in neon sun.

Heavy seeds sink in seas
of red and white.
Lest we forget, you remember
the flag-pole rag of your surrender.

In five hours
the journey's learned,
'time is the fire
in which we burn.'






('time is the fire in which we burn.' has been reinterpreted from 'Calmly We Walk Through this April's Day' by Delmore Schwartz).