STEPHEN FRY

WHEN THE WAR IS OVER
when the last shot is fired
and when the war is no longer romantic
and when the beauty of death has withered
with experiance and age

when the cries of men no longer fuel
the passions of battles
when the crops can no longer grow
and seeds can no longer be sewn

when the rising sun brings the releif of surviving the night
when the bleeding child who once played the fiddle on the corner's
last lament has faded into the silence and darkness of the night

then the war is over

DIRTY OLD TOWN
drifting, aching clouds of love and regret
as harsh and old as the factory
sirens screech across old soot covered towns

the empty smell of youthfull vigour
cold rooms and icy loneliness
half remembered in quilt covered dreams

framed with goosebump smiles of cloud tossed shades
memories are slow
fading smokey streets and fading needs

no longer urgent
no longer ardent
but needed none the less