Liam Wilkinson Poetry

One child takes cover beneath our bay window, he waits on grazed knees for his breath to come back and checks the ammo in his Fairy Liquid bottle.
I suddenly realise I'm a war poet.

The schools are polling stations, the streets scorched by sun and wet with water bombs.
I stick out my head in an effort to experience the conflict of odds against evens.

An army springs from number seven
and I'm hit - an orange balloon at my shoulder - the crouching soldier comes to my aid with a towel and, with failing breath, I tell him where I keep the hose.

Poet: Liam Wilkinson