We saw your soldiers’ ranks, your
desecrated corpses. We saw you
hung, sleek, one by one,
a dirge on a your own stave.
You were such small trophies,
so small, each one. Each one
a glove of dark, smooth silk.
Each one a sorrow of its own,
head height to our child’s eyes.
There was no triumph in this conquest.
No triumph in your sad spade hands,
your aborted tails or quiet eyes.
Now I imagine Goldsworthy meeting Hirst.
Then only sadness in a wind-struck place.
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