Refugees
In dusk of helmet-brims the eyes look stern,
Unwavering, no matter what they see
And where they gaze - Bluff Cove, Thermopylae,
Kuwait, the Somme. The pillaged cities burn,
And when the owners of those eyes return
And put away their weapons there will be
An alien music in another key,
New words and syntax difficult to learn.
Wars never end. Across the livid plain
The dark processions trail, the refugees,
Anonymous beneath indifferent skies,
Somnambulistic, patient shapes of pain,
Long commentary on war, an ancient frieze
Of figures we refuse to recognise.
Vernon Scannell
The Times Saturday Review, Aug. 8, 1992
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