I sit on the roof
and see that day has settled into afternoon,
morning rain has dried,
only a few damp patches in the back yard
and under the apple tree
where the sun doesn’t quite reach before spring.
Dust is now a dusty lane,
instead of mud on my black Sunday boots,
those I use for funerals here in the hamlet
where children are not born.

The day hopes for stillness
and a starlit sky to guide it through the night
and back to a new dawn.
My wish is that five years hence,
I’ll still be able to sit on the roof
and see day walk slowly by
and not followed by an army of Christian soldiers
righteously laying waste
the green land of peace
in search for the last terrorist.