Swimming to the surface out of sleep
I hear my radio through rippling water.
News that Iran is making
promises a world where war
brings nothing deadlier
than the rain of scarlet petals
showering from Kalashnikovs,
purple and pink blossoms
settling on the balconies
of houses standing whole
after mortar fire, shells
bursting with the velvet leaves
of verbena scented foliage.
Stealth bombers load their bays
with trailing pelargoniums
and nuclear bunkers beneath
the apple orchards of Glen Clova
are generously packed with seeds
of pansies and forget-me-nots.
When the warring nations tire
and begin to treat for peace,
platoons of gardeners
with brooms and rakes
clear the debris from unharmed streets
and carry it to giant silos
where it magically makes compost
in which regiments of nurserymen
will grow enriched geraniums.
Pameli kindly suggested this poem as lending itself to an illustration. So here they are together.