There's no hiding behind the royal shilling,
the chain of command, the mindless drill:
it's the hand on the gun that does the killing,
no matter who issues the call to kill.
I know the icy gale that blows
its kiss inside my warmest clothes
beneath a howling moon.
But this wind whistles my tune.
If you have any comments on these poems, Thomas
Land would be
pleased to hear from you.