Jerusalem

JERUSALEM

Upon the dusty precipice stand Canaan’s grieving ghosts;

below lie tired tombstones in pebbled dress,

a cloak of fresh rememberings

to hold dread legions ancient souls in troubled place.

In distant drawn imaginings the Dome stands bright,

alone, and somehow wistful

in the wearied watching of

life’s allotted endless days and blood-linked nights.

The hills are held in place with fresh-hewn rock,

like warts upon a knee they rise

in furious pace; a claiming for

insanity’s sure truth; a surety that sanity must mock.

Familiar lines are drawn to siren’s call,

This place that holds the past

And dreams no more,

But waits for death to rise again in life.

The world grows smaller here,

And so it must,

For minds have shrivelled

In the name of fear.

The mosque,

the church,

the temple,

and the rock

all gone!