Of Dust
Don Schofield

All day the guns pound the Chuff.
When a shell hits the arbor shakes.
The sandbags fall unless we prop
them up. Here in Bessam's garden
my new father-in-law talks
of mists in the Bekaa Valley,
deep grass hiding the ruins.
Dust hangs in the failing light. At eight
we go home past the searchlights.

ISBN 0-9624453-7-1
27 pages/$6