We shut the door. No windows. Soundsoaking walls.
No mobiles. Freshly-swept. And only those
cleared to the highest level know where we are.
Now we can talk, at last. What shall we say?
Who’s bribing whom? Or who’s building a Bomb?
Or which mad bunch of terrorists is plotting how
to maim or slaughter in the name of God?
Or shall we sit in silence, while we wait -
like lovers when the world stops, just for them -
for words to realise they’ve been uncaged
since there’s only you and me to fear, or snare?
But with nowhere to fly in this free air.
If you have any comments on this poem, Tom Vaughan would be
pleased to hear from you.