Games of War

By guest poet Mary Howlett

In the disarray of the outhouse
by the orchard wall, dry clay
of swallow’s nest, crumbles.
Inky blue wings fly to warmer

climes, escape another wretched
year. The last apple holding on
by withered stalk, brown, brittle
leaves turning in on themselves.

The destruction of Gaza, destruction
of Ukraine. Nature’s bountiful offering,
yet all around desolation, rubble, stone
on stone. No trees, no birdsong—

orators play the games of war.
Ripe blackberries simmer on the stove.
Jampots warm in the oven, apples,
newspaper wrapped, stored in the shed.

And Spring, almost around the corner.
We trust the first swallow and fruits’
blossom will reappear
in April.