Homecoming

Poem by Roger Iredale

Eyeless in the midst of chaos
are the giants of concrete: windows
shattered, knees bent beyond repair.
Testaments to bombs and shells. 
An authentic, new reality.

We never saw Picasso in the flesh:
Madrid was way beyond our hope
of travel. But in our schoolbooks
we engaged with him: the crazy horse
neighing up upwards, women’s palms

twisted to the sky fending bombs,
phosphorous, death. It was a memory
imprinted on our souls in childhood.
Returning to it now is sadly
close to coming home.

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