It is spring again. The spring is coming.
It is coming in
on crutches. Swallows nest in the ruins.

Someone has strung a clothes-line
in the graveyard
and a hundred diapers semaphore the wind.

Peace surprised us: we needed more time
to pretend we deserved it, more time
to be ‘the survivors’,

as if we had plans, as if we knew
what next, as if
our dreams were not all of seagulls and the sea.

Peace is like a virus, a light fever.
Peaces makes our Sunday suits
restless; it makes our shoes shuffle.

Soldiers wander the streets legless on slivovitz
asking.’What next?’ What next?’
They won’t go home.

Alan Rickman reads