The darkness overwhelmed her and within its womb
her hurts were hidden and her tears could fall like rain
and the storm of running, hiding, and protecting her
children was for a moment abating and creating a place,
a space for rest and respite, hugs and holding tight.
The smell of burned homes and grenades bursting
still soaked their clothes and strong in her nostrils.
Sights and sounds that will stir their vivid dreams.
The guns were distant and the drones silent in the star
lighted sky, exhausted her eyes closed and the drag
of sleep overcame her but a rustle in the bushes and
she was awake, alert and her anxiety rose as she lay.
No other sound and so she let her heavy eyes droop
and her head rest on the emaciated bone hardness of
her daughter, and woke as the light began to show
bringing colour to the shrubs and trees around them.
Slowly they arose and she gave them water, bread
and the strength to walk on through the thickening
trees. Pausing here, and there to watch and hear if
death drones followed. And so they crept on silently.
In the susurrous rustling of leaves they saw the hut.
A man took her cash, watch, phone and promised
a safe journey. The hungry, wasting children were
quiet on the boat and hastened to travel as advised.
They had not eaten, nor had clean water and yet
hopefully setting off they joyfully arrived at the
shore of the English Channel. The boat was thin
and crowded but sailing towards her mother and
there were her cousins too, gave her good spirits.
Cold, Hungry after travelling a thousand miles
they arrive. Firmly they are shushed and ushered,
into locked rooms, questioned, cruelly separated.
The children dragged away from her screaming.
She’s interrogated with her heart breaking. ‘I’m
back fighting for my life, my girls, my son,’
she thought. No welcome, no warmth, only
questions and coldness. As the darkness of tory
party prejudice destroyed her hopes it seemed
to her that the killer, diving drones
would have been