A Hundred Since The First

For five days the blowflies have cleansed their bones. Now they lie waiting for the August rain, for holy water, afterlives beyond Ukraine, sure heaven neither judges nor atones? Atop tarn uniforms, their sun-bleached skulls resemble cauliflowers amid rapeseed, fodder for architects and lords of greed who build Earth's fences and tear down Earth's walls. No second coming for these meek and poor, no Christ to lean on, anti-christ to blame— they mistake fuse for wick and pray to flame we're not on the eve of the third world war. 4 August 2014