DECEMBER 4
These white colonial boys
Have found themselves a quandary;
And so they wore, each one and all
A set of black pyjamas.
On days when flags were waving wild
White crosses pretence trying
They stomped along where heroes tried
And mimicked stockade rising.
A day to see that boys not men
Have been betrayed by failure
Of colony, love and angry stress
Reduced them to a grumble.
Disguised as freedom, sovereign true
They missed the point entirely.
DECEMBER 5
A night on the town
A day with the voices of
Trees in my ear with
Cars and trains rattling in
Rattling into the silence
But still the silence
In the stacked branches
Weaving leaves of
Solitude
And laughter
Say
Be still.
Still they say
Be still.
DECEMBER 6
And the bombs
The children
The innocent
A genocide
And hope in other places.
Love in other places.
Love in unknown places.
Love flourishing.
Love expressed.
The love of the unlovely lived unseen.
Love battled with and reborn.
Love not hate.
Love not violence
Love. Just love.
Peter Breen 2023
Untitled. Ink on paper Peter Breen 2023
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