The Fields of Bosnia

The banks of the Danube
can be lonelier than outcast iron mines.
I saw nothing but
before the females in my family told us
she was back
and not terrified of the death.
But where cries the night
in rape to the shrieking rain?
We will lie anywhere.
Kataja threw her daughter's head;
held it as though scraping hell.
I crushed it into tatters.
A new demon rules Eden,
a leper nun who doesn't breed,
a brew reeking of loyalty.
I still don't live in mud because I have children.
I go without supper;
his meeting takes the chocolate eclairs domed with green
cattle are aimed at the bulging windows.
They say KEEP OFF;
this place between two pinnacles
of delectable phosphorescent green rocks
where a huge bird scuttles up towards Mostar blowing snow.
They roll in their bathing suits,
Their barrels smell of dirty blackness.
In the light so many wives attack him.
Two girls pass gripping a little old bed sheet.
He is a swirling mass of unhealthy tree, under the woman,
feeling sorry, shuffling along,
Men of the burnt fields grow instant whiskers;
meanwhile the sunny meadow is life.

Gerald England is a British poet, living on the edge of the Pennines with his lace-making wife, a son and a Manchester terrier. He has been active on the small press scene for 30 years and edits the magazine Aabye's Baby. He has published eleven collections of poetry and been translated into several languages. Of his new collection Limbo Time published in 1998, Poetry Quarterly Review wrote "his work is both personal and accessible and presents an original view of life". He has recently started a new career as a freelance web designer, and his site can be found at http://www.geraldengland.co.uk/ge.htm..