Paradise Poem by Brian Wake

During the war, their breakfast, every morning
on the devastated farm, was either, nine times
out of ten, an extraordinarily renewed determination
or remorse. The cattle gone, the sheep, the horse.

Occupied the barn, searched haystacks
for the enemy and eggs. Slaughtered the hens.
Served taboos, like dogs and cats, for lunch
with yellow cabbages and rotting fish
to eat in silence but for hard bread tapping
on the dish; for gunshots in the mountains.

Unwinding bandages to bind their limbs,
they spoke of fundamental contradictions, grilling
lunch on bomb heat, ideologies and lambs
on open fire. In normal circumstances, they,
the men and women, would have headed off
to work in offices, on building sites, have driven
wagonloads of groceries to superstores or children
home from school, avoiding all entanglements,
or taught, mailed messages, sent birthday cards
or decorated living rooms, attended funerals,
put coats of paint on bedroom walls and doors.

War, and they watch the hills, not for returning
sheep or harvests, but for armoured cars,
the helicopter, shooting stars, for tall men
bearing guns and bitterness who have squatted
with begging bowls in the shadows of volcanoes;
the element of surprise, for men with prayers
and flowers in their hands and in their eyes
the gift of paradise.