by Liam Wilkinson

One child takes cover beneath our bay window, he waits on grazed knees for his breath to come back and checks the ammo in his Fairy Liquid bottle.
I suddenly realise I’m a war poet.

The schools are polling stations, the streets scorched by sun and wet with water bombs.
I stick out my head in an effort to experience the conflict of odds against evens.

An army springs from number seven
and I’m hit; an orange balloon at my shoulder; the crouching soldier comes to my aid with a towel and, with failing breath, I tell him where I keep the hose.

Last updated May 02, 2015