Into the Jaws of Death

                    Autumn, 2008

Parade of faces, broadsheet wise, all spent:
Gibraltar Forward Operations Base,
Afghanistan, 2 Para, last week's news.

As liable to be killed or maimed as in
the First World War, you chase the Taliban
through corn that's shoulder-high, shooting point-blank:
pure comic book, like rabbits in headlines.

It's called "The Mouth of Hell": the constant threat
of skirmish, mortar, sniper, mine, vest bomb;
phone pictures for the blokes back home - "Respect!"

No wonders why or truck with politics,
the recipe: take youthful fervour, add
close comradeship, fall pride ("No holding back"),
incessant drill, adrenalin; stir well.

No pause for air cover, boots melting in
the sun, hit them head on: "They choose the ground.
No sweat, we charge straight through their ambushes."

June 12th, you're tossing sweets to kids who laugh
and point beyond the track across a stream.
You take a look. They open up, sheer weight
of fire indelible: "Hard rock 'n' roll."

"Man down!" You're hot as blazes till that first
shot's fired, then cold as ice: slow - quick, quick – slow,
weird time. Word's out two more have done and died.

Snakes and Ladders
 

Your mother smiled:
"In constant fear of debt
your grandparents."

Back there the shame
it bought bit deep
enough; twice shy
of something worse.

She'd used her 'never-never' plan
for leatherette armchairs
and cheap broadloom,
few bob a week
salting an old tobacco tin.

These days folk surf big waves
on credit cards.
The market drives:
rich get first pick, but some
will filter through;
false prophets feed closed minds.

When things go critical
down the old 'Bull an' Bear',
monopoly with loaded dice,
lives fall apart.

Cards marked, quick change of hats,
the dark ones and their acolytes,
jump ship unscathed, loot stashed
in virtual carpetbags.