Poem: At my door

'Please God they are not at my door...'

Please God they are not at my door.

It’s likely God is looking the other way for they are here

walking up the hill approaching our bungalow. A mass 

of desperate human debris. Some must be carried, 

some have sticks, others lean on friends. 

They arrive and look at me in expectation.

Five thousand or more – I am not able to do a head count.

I usher twenty into our kitchen, to a table

and two settees, but many remain on the path to our gate,

on the pavement which winds down the hill. 

I give them tea and cake, find bandages – it’s all I have,

for Tony’s bread is eaten. They have given up on weeping 

and wailing and sit quietly and wait. I am not in a position 

to do anything. We cook for those in the kitchen. 

We can surely find room on beds, on sofas, on the floor 

for those who can sleep. We have plenty of water. 

Amir is some sort of leader. He tells me of the bombs, 

of the torture, of disease and starvation. Of frozen babies. 

I can do nothing. 

Some of those who were in our kitchen have died. 

We have a big garden – big enough for several graves.

The others seem to be growing stronger and returning 

to some sort of physical health. They have resumed 

weeping and wailing, which must surely be a good thing.

But I worry about the silent among them who stare

at the floor. I am worried about how long we can go on.

I am worried about the four thousand and eighty people,

minus those who have died who remain outside. 

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