this year I do not ask for much

only that each tank will beat
itself into a thousand ploughshares

and snipers, dead-eyed, precise as surgeons,
draw bullets out from heads and hearts 

back across a kilometre of air into
a breech, leaving only healing

that they collect a hundred bullets, 
hand their gun back, walk away

that soldiers cut the ties on bound 
and naked men, clothe them, tend

their wounds, lead them back to life
as doctor, nurse, mechanic, grocer

that ministers who monger hate will open 
their mouths, find their own tongues 

have rebelled against them, can spew 
out only love, and love, and love

contrition, forgiveness, and love
and when fighter jets sweep low

over rubble, raise it into buildings
where plants grow on balconies

where there are photos taped to 
fridge doors, where there is the smell 

of baking, and spices, the sound of 
mothers calling up and down stairwells 

all these promises of future, we shall
look up into the blue of the sky

above us, see how quadcopters
soar and circle in squadrons, kites

which carry only the precious payload 
of children’s laughter, poets’ dreams



© Steve Pottinger 31 Dec 2024