Syrian Snow

Syrian snow

lands on homes,

roofless bones of brick.

It lands on barbed wire fences,

photographed in yesterday’s news.
Syrian snow

falls on the boats

of those whose only chance is to go.

It lands in Greece,

in Munich,

in Paris,

is carried across the Channel

to you

and me

and we turn over the TV,

close the door,

let it melt.
Syrian snow

tastes like ghosts,

like ash, like

Holocausts.
IOB 5.3.15

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About Ian O'Brien

I am a teacher and scribbler, living in Manchester, UK.
This entry was posted in Thoughts, Words and tagged , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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