Waking at first light in the hope
of some miraculous resurrection of hope,
an Easter miracle come early, I turn on
my phone, find that the people of Gaza
– every last man, woman, and child –
have been blessed with Ukrainian passports.
Bright. New. Shiny. God
moving in mysterious ways.
The BBC leads with their story
on every bulletin, follows it up with images
some viewers may find distressing.
Kids without limbs, starving infants.
Shows the results of two-ton bombs
on families in tents. Our Prime Minister
– for the first time in eighteen months –
unequivocally denounces war crimes.
A catch in his voice, he condemns clear and
obvious genocide, speaks of sanctions,
repercussions, promises the immediate flow
of aid. There’s not a dry eye in the House.
Packed benches hear hear their assent.
The UN acts. Passes resolutions
even the US does not oppose.
Rolling news covers the medical airlift
on all channels – endless lines of stretchers
and their motionless occupants, hooked up to IV,
teenagers in wheelchairs who flash victory salutes
with their one good arm. Footage
of doorstepped generals goes viral.
Arrest warrants are acted on, at last.
Three days later – the flags flying
from council buildings and palaces alike,
hanging from lampposts, sellotaped
in windows, drawn in a child’s hand –
three days later, God, whose comprehension
of the news cycle surpasseth all understanding
divinely blesses the people of Gaza
– every last man, woman, and child –
with passports in the name of Palestine.
Bright. New. Shiny.
Dares the world to row back.
