The heat hums on hills - poem

The heat hums on hills

the colour of sand: rock not grain –

there is no shifting here.

High on the hill we climb

from the heart of the rock

water springs

enough for a goodly flock

and the families who tend them.

In the hill villages the shepherd

follows the grass up the slope.

Here, the movement is down from high rock

to the grazing in the valley below.

Who would want to displace

those who can live from so simple

a gift: water from stone?

There is no sense in it; yet the threat

is clear on a single sheet of paper.

They must move: this is a closed

military zone. Failure will mean

their dwellings destroyed.

Perhaps it is the apparent

impermanence of their homes:

those sturdy fragile structures -
coffee bags, brown and neatly stitched -

threatens their solid foe.

Still they smile and welcome us:

give us bread, olives, fruit -

and reassurance. Living lightly

on this hard earth, they will always return.

and the spring, inshallah, will welcome them. 

      *      *    *     *     *
 

Today they came, the bulldozers,

the soldiers. Today …