should an agency cleaner in the basement
of the British Museum find
in some forgotten room
an old earthenware lamp
and choose to rub it,
rub it with the sleeve of
her overall, gentle
and curious, knowing this
is not strictly within the T&Cs
of her employment, but
should she do that
and lo! a djinn appear,
stir itself to life and ask
Yeah? What?
and should she, thinking of
her neighbours in the flat
next door, the sobbing heard
through a shared and common wall
whisper Gaza. Peace
and should the djinn nod,
fade, vanish, the lamp
a dusty artefact and
she alone with the dead
hours of the night, miles
to tread before she sleeps
should she finish her shift,
wait, half-awake, for the 6am
bus that will carry her home
newsrooms, airwaves, screens
in meltdown, jabbering the endless
Who? How? Why?
should a prime minister’s son
cower in hospital scrubs
in the ruins of Al-Shifa
a diplomat and her family
flee down Salah-al-Din Road,
searching for safety and water
should, in Khan Younis,
a pundit with a white flag
stumble into the sights
of a sniper, the president’s
mistress beneath the rubble
of a building, buried alive
should all this come to pass
there will be ceasefire before
the cleaner turns the key
in her front door,
trucks of aid in their hundreds
before the sun has set.
Tomorrow, we will begin to rebuild.
© Steve Pottinger 23 Dec 2023
