I have just found my file of my oldest poetry. I began writing when I was 15 and my first poem was a reflection on nuclear war. I am sure it needed a good edit then and now but I think I shall leave it just as it is because it was what it was and that is interesting, for me anyway, to see.
Warm dust blowing and covering,
mantling the broken stone,
hiding the twisted wreckage
in an effort to forget.
The stunned sky weeps and clouds
in a film of powered death.
Charred slivers of confident cities,
scream at a foreign sun.
Houses, open-mouthed bare their souls,
voices silent protest at their fate.
Splintered eyes of glinting disbelief
reflect the washed, grey life to death:
death to…. What?
The seed is buried in the earth,
cradled in the bitten soil.
Fear warms it, terror nurses it,
hope keeps it alive.
Lifeless but hot with memory
the cringing land moves warily.
Creeping, crawling, crying … it sighs,
and laughs, and sighs.
No ear to hear a breaking wall,
no eye to watch it die…
alone it returns.
The wiser wind whistles
through each smiling metal skeleton;
teasing the earth, calling for sound,
for life, for nothing.