Rabi' Al-Awwal Poem by David Tremain

They danced by the light of spangled stars
Around a petrol fire
And the flames that rose were as bright as the dawn
That they were waiting for

Some sang for the sun to drive away night
But others had different prayers:
The peace of the crescent moon would reign
When the day that came was theirs

When, like weary limpets, they withdrew from battered shells
And struck a doubtful path for peace, or war,
They found themselves upon a stage
Arranged in rows on screens that showed a range of different hells
Each as peculiar as the one before

And we, with baited breath for half an hour every day,
And on the morning train to break the boredom of the way
To work, would watch and hope that in a recent desert they
Would hear us and forgive us that we knew not what to say

How could we?

The stars are all put out, the lions quit their dens
The fires cloak their whispers in the dusk.
Is it change that makes the distant mountains quiver so?
Or a hollow drawn-out sigh across the dust?