It’s Bizarre

“It’s bizarre,” said Mike,
his head sinking lower
towards his pint
on the evening before
his Business Class flight.
A London stopover was agreed
with a night at a fine hotel each way.
It gave him time to visit the office of the ANC
for briefing or debriefing, as always on these jobs.

“It’s bizarre,”
said the Anti Apartheid campaigner,
drinking another beer
in the back street pub.

“It’s bizarre,”
said the Young Communist
grown older
sinking more beers.

“It’s bizarre,”
said the Professor of Criminology,
employed by the government of South Africa
to advise on policing the townships,
as he ordered another beer.

“It’s bizarre,” said Mike
his head sinking lower
towards his pint.
“It’s bizarre.”
He drank another beer
just in case they’d noticed,
just in case it was his last.

Echoes

There’s always a prequel
to any drama
in the theatre of war,
a rehearsal
like Guernica
for what is to come.

History’s theatre was always misty

but now the fog is so dense
that we can see nothing,
Hear nothing,
understand nothing
of the power play unfolding.

It’s impossible to know
as we sit here watching
which will be
the first step
the harbinger
of things to take us back
where they began,
Time’s echoes
of the end.

Trick Of The Light?

My eyes are playing tricks
again
or there’s another solar eclipse
outside.

A dangerous red
so bright
so bright
surrounds the blackest
black.

Maybe it’s a trick of the light
and not the way
the world will end
swallowed up in fire
but I’m still not sure.

Wait.

I can see it clearly now.

Author’s Biography

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. She has been nominated for Pushcarts Prize, Best of the Net and a Rhysling Award. Find Lynn at: https://lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com and https://www.facebook.com/Lynn-White-Poetry-1603675983213077/