A Handful of Dust

In the bomb makers
Workshop on the dusty floor
Of an anonymous bungalow
In Kabul, bleach and fertilizer
Mix with the dung and the dust

The pipes were roughly sawn to size
Adding rough steel filings to the floors
Detritus, fizzing with spilt bleach
Coils of fishing wire and Flowers of Sulphur

The prize for his handiwork
A place amongst the martyrs of faith
Time well spent with the virgins waiting
In paradise, but first, the bombs had to be planted

And then silence. They wait. Cowards …..

Waiting for signs of the approaching
Patrol, the young soldiers’ naïve, intent on survival
Queen and Country, stepping cautiously forward, until
A boot catches in the fishing wire, until the wire is tripped
The bomb is triggered until the dazzling, blinding, flashing …..

And the pride of a wounded family; dust
The pride of a proud battalion; dust
The pride of a nation and its youth; dust

Dust in the warm, sultry, bright, blue, air
Of Afghanistan. Just a handful of dust. It is finished.
“Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?”