Build me a home...somewhere on the fringes

There’s a peace in the fringes of the desert,
in untouched yellowed grasses of the earth,

sands marked with only antlions and birdprints,

in the cricket’s song and the pale moon’s rinse

on the unmarked path that’s barely a path.

It’s not that I have not loved the cities

the streets of bookshops, artworks, topiaries,

the tempests in the endless cups of tea

the bustle of trade, the quick repartee -

but they’re all smoke and change, nothing’s at peace.

In the capitals some or other tribe

jostles for power, takes a random swipe,

narrow minds and narrow rules deal hard blows

to ones they called neighbours just days ago

and peace is a stranger to urban life.

The sands are ever changing, ever still

the antlions likely still pockmark the Sahel,

the birds still sing, the trade wind brings and pours

a fine mist of dust wisped in from the north

only the grass trembles, the rest is tranquil.

But that Sahel’s a figment, just a dream;

the sands are churning, the grasses aren’t serene

some manic sickness has taken sudden hold -

and the innocent suffer all round the world

no antlions those, they’re something else it seems.

Build me a home where humans have forgotten

to aim and shoot, sharpen the war obsession,

where the Sahel and the green are both peaceful,

the olive shades the white dove and keeps her cool,

where ships are only transport and not weapons.