In fog the tent tops
look like wind-swollen burqas,
simple makeshift shields
that limit sideways vision.
Someone stirs, rises,
emerges to stoke embers
of the camp's fires, flames
lighting the border between
there, where the sea stilled
after parting, and here,
where wire and chainlink
corral children and mothers
who fail to rescue
but one brown egg for breakfast.
2016 © Maureen E. Doallas
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This poem was inspired by Yannis Kolesidis's photos of a refugee camp at the border between Greece and the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia and by Reuters Paris Pix and AFP Photo Department's images, all from March 11, 2016, and seen at Tom Clark's blog, Beyond the Pale.
1 comment:
Painful, powerful images. Thank you for this poem.
And what a coincidence: my Good Letters post today is on a poem by Nye on the refugees. (Or maybe it's not a coincidence: we're all numbed by the inhumanity these people are suffering.)
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