The mist of mountains brings in tears of rain
Where charcoal burners sought to set up home.
The forest floor is thick with fern again
Their labours lost, their bodies buried bone.
Strong men cut trees to feed the furnance mound
The smaller boughs formed shelters where they slept.
As darkness fell their families gathered round
So far from homes in Florence, women wept.
Young men reap death on fields they did not sow
In Ypes, Verdun the slaughtered sons of France
The migrants had no choice of where to go,
But played their part where love then stood no chance.
In silent tribute to the dead we stand
Where ghosts are working still this unclaimed land.
note – charcoal burners from Italy had lived with their wives and children in make shift tents during the Great War. One of the women described her life as a ‘sea of tears’.
The heat sucked life out of her body
her skin felt strangely numb
lungs full of heavy heat.
a desperate need to keep focused
as her whole body succumbed to fatigue.
So this is India.
Can death be this simple?
Lost in the mountains, our voices call out
The sky is dark, lit by a million stars.
We cease to care if anyone finds us.
On the Ganges,
boats made of banana leaves,
with tiny tea lights
bounce on the waves.
Taking the souls of loved ones
to a secret destination.
for Jean and Mado
Under the sun umbrella
on the terrace
old friends meet.
Watching the mist on mountains
listening to the call of the cowman
urging his herd to milking.
Eating apricots, sipping wine,
a gentle informality,
born of shared memories.
comforted into silence,
they say she’s pretty.
She’d lived in France
near the Somme
there for the talking.