War Correspondent           For James Fenton Floating among the ice, these peaceful soft, curly shapes reflect the sky. The river rocks them lightly, gently, their pace appearing slow and graceful beneath the evening’s silver mantle. We cannot see the fish below, but discern from here a place of worship that dominates this wounded landscape. The fish cannot disturb the dead. Indifferent, the murdered lie swelling our rivers of history. A friendly warlord has purged a delicate threatening issue of principles (which we regret). You must have heard: a war afar stirs passions once it has occurred on television. They’ve left behind a tidy village of great importance - once, to them, the toil of ruined generations, a scent of sweat, the stench of fear, spent cartridges trampled into the snow and children recoiled from adult ways, potential witnesses still in hiding in crumpled bedrooms (which we regret). Others I know marched calmly at gunpoint and left their clothes and shoes on the shore. They were received by the surging waves tied in pairs to prevent survival, to float forever towards the sea - rejected by oblivion. We have erected a monument to urge humanity: Never Again! ...A monument secured by our stubborn pillars of fear that make us insane and succumb to the lure of the tranquil river. The icy current coils beyond our will and wailing. Hear this dirge composed for you and me, undated. It mourns the living. We calculate our fate in sums of overkill. Thomas Land If you've any comments on this poem, Thomas Land would be pleased to hear them.