Hunters

Hunters

On Short Point, a cuppa from the thermos, 
she whispers.         ‘Thanks’
struggling to shake off the fog of nightmares 
dead babies, body parts and screams. 
No longer one bomb every four minutes.
Now, four bombs every second.
While he slept, she caught up with her livestream 
of Palestinians in Gaza, and life must go on 
but drones are using 
recorded sounds of crying children 
to lure people from their tents. 

She made another donation from their bed
but still no aid trucks enter, except
to bring shrouds for dead babies. 
The slaughter continues. Her friends in Gaza 
post last words as the world scrolls past.
Her mother told her ‘Never forget’ 
at a time when certainty existed.
‘That’s good coffee,’ she says, best not to say anything about 
the burned-out orphanages, ruined hospitals, gas bombs, 
journalist Fatima Hassouna murdered in her bed.

She rattles the spoon, stirring in sugar and 
jarring the morning, watching the gannets
stalk their prey. He passes a Tim Tam. 
She nibbles a corner as the predatory pied missiles plunge 
Joint Strike Fighters, the sea skin broken 
they rise and float, conquerors, 
silver trevally impaled on beaks.

Published 2025, 34 to 37 Degree (Southcoast writers)