Each Spring, in a corner by the trees,
Long green hands applauded in the breeze.
They rose to fold and scissor slanting light
Which fell on water sparkling bright.
One day, sudden as thunder, came the raid
Those hands were shorn beneath the blade.
And in their place were plots of earth.
Neatly spaced. Graves of death.
In months or years the Spring time will return
But no more flags will greet that coming of the sun.
Hugh Noble © Sept 2001