Bones of War

Chill, the bones
of war are stirring -
rattling in the
blood of children
sleeping -
staining the soil
where ten thousand
mothers weep.

Icy hatred boils
behind rockets
red that flame
and fan the world
burning in circled
embered sparks
amid the cheering
crowds of jubilation.

Pain we heap
and heap in piles
of rotting fear
and putrid anger
stench enfolded
in snide political
veneer that reeks
of platitudes -
bandaging wounds
that will not heal
with poisoned words.

And still we try
to sell what cannot
be bought -
this earth
that belongs
to none.

© Eleanor Clark
30 July, 2014