Guernica Poem by Mark Heathcote

Guernica is a palace brought to ruins
a plough of violence where chaos reigns
here let us be under no illusions
pain and destruction likewise have no gains.
A child slain lays dead in its mother's arms
a haemorrhaging horse outward bleeds gored.
Disturbing images are like thunderstorms
they are ruthless disasters untoward.
That won't make you laugh that'll-make you cry.
There's a-dismembered soldier, a mother
crying, and it's nothing like a lullaby
it's a canvas of life in the gutter
under a spotlight of disaster that might
in some near future gallery, shine bright.