Cordite over Cornflakes

UN confirms genocide this morning...
we've known for months,

screaming into Westminster's deaf stone ears

while Israel writes epitaphs in rubble and bone-dust

across Gaza's broken spine,

and my friend texts from the coast.

"Family to the water, I stay behind.

We will die; Palestine will live"

words hanging like cordite smoke over Cornflakes,

bitter as the BBC's measured dance around genocide,

and my friend texts from the coast.

Tommy Robinson's march draws ten thousand for "Britain First"

while Rafah's children burn in hospital beds,

these flag-wavers blind to the truth

that free Palestine means fewer desperate boats crossing dark waters,

and my friend texts from the coast.

The global flotilla cuts Mediterranean swells

toward Gaza's blockaded shore,

Greta's young face branded "terrorist" by those

who rain white phosphorus on refugee camps,

Israel mocking witness as vanity,

and my friend texts from the coast.

Time moves like treacle through our safe rooms

while bombs fall faster than aid ships sail,

faster than conscience stirs in Downing Street's carpeted corridors

where they sign arms deals with steady hands,

and my friend texts from the coast.

We scroll through horror with our morning tea,

signing petitions like prayers to gods gone deaf,

our hashtags making mockery of the dying

while somewhere in Gaza's rubble

he tends the wounded,

and my friend texts from the coast.

The shore, last refuge where families huddle

between sea and slaughter,

the flotilla sailing through indifferent waters

carrying hope like contraband toward a destination that may vanish,

and my friend texts from the coast.

"We will die; Palestine will live"

words that crack hearts wide,

that expose our safe distance as genocide

unfolds documented and unstoppable as Mediterranean tide,

and my friend texts from the coast.

Comments

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The Sound Of Bo Belle

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