Report What you see has meaning becomes memory grows larger than life   We were standing just across from them outside Arrivals, the two of us, like everybody else in the long queues for buses to the airport car parks, finding space for ourselves inside the crush, watching our bags, noticing a chill in the air again, cracking worn-out jokes and sharing stories with total strangers the way you do, but all the time thinking of getting home, turning our door key in a lock we knew would open.  The one thing nobody jokes about, because it matters.  They were wearing soot-black combat fatigues, body armour, boots that gave them the look of storm-troopers and they were armed: hand-guns, batons, snub-nosed automatic weapons with pistol grips, a long-barrelled sniper rifle with telescopic sights, the kind of mailed-fist warning you can’t avoid seeing on the streets of other countries, places you wouldn’t choose to call your own. Invisible behind dark glasses, their eyes gave us a once-over as they passed, one muttered something, the others grinned. Tar them all with the same brush dead simple wink when you call it freedom Ken Head If you have any comments on this poem, Ken Head would like to hear them.