Iain Gordon Maciver

Grinding through streets
Of mirrored pools,
Inclined to
Beat the volley that is
Waging war.
Pellets of clarity
Muddle the ground.
Trudging the barrage,
Feeble fabric armour
Clings for life,
Cursing the skies for
Opening fire.

Melange of colours
Breathe
The golden drops.
Each a cup that
Embezzles all the
Soft mist.
Opening their homes
To savour their god.
Peace endures
Within the garden
Of Nature’s offspring
Thirsting.