The Other Land

His sky has no horizon, volcanoes
pile around him spewing fire
like dragons. Their silver claws threaten
to shred him but they cannot reach.

When I call him by his old name,
they tumble down. A child runs
out of a school along the village road.
A young man waves to me across the promenade in Nice.
A father smiles at his small son.
A bloody heap curls by a muddy kerb under a whir of voices.

The tank has gone past with the soldiers on the lookout.
Grim faced they patrol the main road to Basra.
Another of their young
lost to this world.

I wonder how to end this story
of his last phone call with his words
of "people drawn into a senseless war" and
still laughing, when the shell exploded.

I opened them the door, the street light
threw incredulous specks on their dark uniforms.
Their eyes in shadow
sealing my fate.

Now we are facing each other, as we cannot cross
borders, for we have to be called.
I am here.
You are there.
Diluted voices.
Still we believe in the strength of eyes
to perceive a whole picture
with its grains and imperfections
that we call truth.

I am so sad for you, he says. Been just in the wrong place
at the wrong moment. If ever...
The dragons have clawed my belly. But here
sorrow leaks into hollows
and the sand dusts the stars.
We walk near the fire, always,
that burns right through any thought.

Orange and gold in the air. He searches for words
to tell me about the most amazing skies,
the vibrant colours,
the emptiness and vastness of his world.