Kevin Pocock

Today a reporter died.

On the front line.

And I know soldiers do,

well it was a journo this time.

Does that make me despicable?

That it grabbed my attention?

See his honourable intention

was to break safe convention.

Report from the front and risk the

fatal shunts of bombs and bullets.

It’s almost too much for me to consider.

And I know that soldiers’ hearts quiver to stop more often,

than that of Rupert’s, which softened my ears.

But it brought it home once again.

The conflict, the wars that never disappear.

The complete waste of it all.

Kids with no two parents to call.

Just the one lucky enough to

be left, not killed, not cleft from

lives with the knives, guns,

small explosive suns that rise to die so quickly

that the day isn’t slow enough

to see the stuff of lives flash past.

To see the shadow it casts on those affected.

A single blast dissecting so many stifled shouts.

When loved ones hear ‘dear Rupert’ is no longer about.

But solace is taken

making what peace there ever can be.

He…did what he thought had to be done.

He. His parent’s son, with children of his own.

He disowned the danger.

Ranged further than my pen dares

In search of news from ground zero.

And to some, that might make him a hero.

But upon me, just a sadness falls.

Because Rupert, spelt anyway you like,

And called in any of the world’s languages.

Into any name that fell the same way.

Speaks to me about horrors,

and asks if we can stop.

Can we…

Make IED: Improvised Explosive Device

Mean IED: It Ended Definitely.

And for once be talking about

the death of a concept.

Than the death of life meaning more people,

without people.

Heard news and wept.