Dinosaurs

Poem by Roger Iredale

It was not from the tongues of angels that came the whine
of exocets intent on harm to tribesmen, comrades, friends.

The deaths are classified ‘collateral’: puffs of dust
across a landscape of ‘we have no option but to…’

What ancient acts of violence propel these monsters
born of darkness, lighting fuses to our future lives?

Unforgotten selfies mellow in the hands of mothers
salvaged from the wrecks of buildings under storm.

Future is untold, predictable, a panache of the hopes
of all, and loss of ‘what could have been, if only…’

Speak truth to power, fly clouds of inspiration,
take the streets, inhabit lives where spirits blaze.

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