I Must Ask the Vicar where Yemen Is....

My dream:

Lazily blows the dust across the waste,
Upon the river bank I sit at ease;
The sky is clear the sun is bright and strong,
I stand and stretch and feel the gentle breeze.

I see:

A line of women and girls with empty cans,
Along the river floor they toil and trudge;
No water now, the heat and drought bite hard,
Their depths of death and misery I cannot judge.

Two women, with tiny children, flee the drought,
Children with skulls protruding, so close to death;
They trample and stumble for miles in dust and heat,
The children cry, emaciated, gasping for breath.

A father bowed low, his son forlorn behind,
Stick-like arms protrude below his sleeves;
His face is gaunt; his eyes, they pierce my mind,
Who knows for what ordeals untold he grieves?

Now in despair they flee the drought and death,
Their village abandoned, their cattle and crops are dead;
The sand still blows - to them no mercy shown,
As on and on their path they wearily tread.

Now in town:

Through streets of dust and rubble I stumble,….
Through shattered glass and bricks, in piles so high:
I see with horror remains of homes destroyed,
So many are killed but who can justify?

A medical centre - so crowded, stifling and hot,
A mother sits - her tears she struggles to hold;
Her eyes are firmly fixed on movements so weak,
Her tiny starving child her arms enfold.

Her skinny limbs, like twigs, now flail the air,
Protruding ribs encase a pounding heart;
With piercing cries and eyes that fixedly stare,
Sharply through my mind and soul they dart

I hear the distant sound of warring planes,
On innocent lives the bombs of terror descend;
The lights now fail, mothers and children scream,
In the dark I cry: “Can this never end?”

But now:

I stretch and yawn and out of bed I roll,
I carefully draw the blinds and look outside;
I see the gardens kept so trim and neat,
And homes so cosy, prosperous – held with pride.

*****

A coffee morning at church today,
Money to give to save the tower;
Creamy cakes and smiles so bright,
A marvellous way to spend an hour.

mmm….

I must ask the vicar where Yemen is…


Footnote: This is a rewritten version of poem about Somalia (with whom Yemen shares many horrors).  This version includes references to the war led by a neighbouring country against those people of Yemen who do not share the same religion as they, and who are seen as rebelling against the legitimate government of Yemen.