We see you every day br on the newsreels br a face like the worn map of tragedy br lined with a life of service br that should have ended in an honoured peace br among those you bore and love br your hands reaching out br to the TV camera br begging for water, food br or beseeching br in some unrecognisable, ineffective br local language, or br cursing an enemy not visible br who made a ruin of your home br or being carried unceremoniously br between urgent hands in some material br from a bed that is no longer there br or sitting bemused by life br awaiting some unnamed help beyond request br though never accompanied by your son br who has found a greater cause br than home, or age, and somewhere else… br br or, in the occasional poem - br tended, your paper skin and jutting hipbones br not unlike some starved chicken’s carcase br described with painful love br as if you only lived a living life br in the past tense, br beyond the verses, between the metaphors br br and yet, if we could only find words br to describe what's still living, br where pride hides, a pride br too precious now in grief to speak, br how you love those who are not here..