News cycle filters through the pictures again,
muted buzz of static from the back of the set
perched high above an empty bar,
upturned stools kicked up like drunk legs.
Cigarette burnt low he flicks the butt wide,
watches it sail, scatter ash, splutter in the sink,
tap drip, dripping in that constant aching manner
of fists drumming against windows caving in.
Could comment on the old school tactics,
another plague, a new spin on the old classic.
Some times the old tricks do work best,
even if they stop short of razing it all to dust.
Tonight we are being challenged to write War Poetry, which immediately brings back memories of studying Wilfred Owen’s Selected Poems for A Level English Lit. However, war is something that always seems to exist somewhere at any point in history, and all too often conflict is much closer than we would like to believe.