The War Photographer’s Son
The moon’s a trigger
his torso mapped with scars
perimeters, and the stars
are for hunting by
in strange scimitar regions
his camera flies
while my mother curls
me on her lap
and cries
there is always Reuters
to rely on and the papers
we have the old shrapnel
shards from netted stitches
trophies of an alien zone
maybe a return
camouflaged with laurels
my mother drops
the phone
the moon’s a shutter
its eye upon the dying boy
I feel for him/feel nothing
there is a part of me
that stalks the moonlit jungle
in big dusty boots
a nightmare up and running
my father
loads the film and
shoots.
Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 1984
This is an old poem of mine , published many years ago.
Veronica Aldous 