Weary Fingers Poem by Theresa Daly

Tthe streetllamp, still aglow
casts a gloss over the footpath.
The orange light of morning gushes through the bedroom window;
your weary fingers scramble for the lightswitch,
as the seagull swoops for prey.

Somewhere long ago,
you marched through the feilds of DeNang
twitching at the eyes of children concealing weapons,
your nervous fingers flinching the trigger startled,
as their weeping mothers fall and pray.