Sunday, 15 November 2015

On The Day After Islamic Terrorists Slaughter Civilians In Paris

On this day of making cider in the kitchen,
Of crushing apples in the hired press;
On this day of standing chopping, bashing, squashing;
This day of pulverising flesh;
This day of my transforming
What the passing of three seasons
Had created, whole and perfect, 
Into something broken, smashed, where stress
And weight and force and pressure
Were applied, and where corruption
Will be encouraged: this day of turning more to less;
On this day of life revolving
Round this simple, homely task -
Let me remember 
Those souls who now are passing
From this life into the next,
On this fourteenth of November,
And let me ask:
Why should we weep and sing the Hostias
For fellow men, who yesterday, perhaps,
Were standing, laughing, joking in the kitchen;
Why tolerate this dereliction
This insanity that passes for religion,
This turning what is lovely, whole and perfect
Created through the passing of each season,
Our life and liberty and reason,
Into a pint of piss?

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