War Photographer

In his darkroom he is finally alone

with spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.
The only light is red and softly glows,
as though this were a church and he
a priest preparing to intone a Mass.
Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. ll flesh is grass.
!e has a "o# to do. $olutions slop in trays
#eneath his hands which did not trem#le then
though seem to now. %ural &ngland. !ome again
to ordinary pain which simple weather can dispel,
to fields which don't e(plode #eneath the feet
of running children in a nightmare heat.
$omething is happening. stranger's features
faintly start to twist #efore his eyes,
a half)formed ghost. !e remem#ers the cries
of this man's wife, how he sought appro*al
without words to do what someone must
and how the #lood stained into foreign dust.
hundred agonies in #lack)and)white
from which his editor will pick out fi*e or si(
for $unday's supplement. The reader's eye#alls prick
with tears #etween #ath and pre)lunch #eers.
+rom aeroplane he stares impassi*ely at where
he earns a li*ing and they do not care.
,arol nn -uffy