In the morning, the tide in a logic which barely made sense even to itself
made a disorderly retreat across the beach leaving bodies or shells dead
and trapped in the mud like sand like rotting corpses.
In the morning, when the tide moved, there was low clouds hanging at the edge
of the sky, lingering around like a pack of screeching vultures waiting eagerly
to jump and steal away their prey.
The silence of their anger could hardly be vented at the tactics they had chosen. The waves that were now charging back in such a disorderly fucking mess had promised them so much. They'd opened their arms up or eyes like a preacher
would welcome his flock to come and listen to their words of wisdom.
Melting their promises across airwaves, their progranda as deadly as any
television broadcast or newspaper report. Dragging some off to destruction
without offering them any real choice. Convincing others that this was the best
thing they could do and that they didn't have any real choice in the matter by
offering them the most twisted and savage humliation and fear as alternatives
promising in return the glory of fightiung for what they stood for.
They promised the war would be brief and they would be home before anybody
knew they were away.
The war would be short and one sided.
They would be welcomed on their return as the most of honoured of heroes
and everybody would sing their praises.
They promised them the world and delivered them nothing.
They promised them the world and delivered them nothing.
(Copyright Andrew E Nicholson 2002 - This is also a D.I.H Song and has appeared in the book "Flowers on a Shoe String" (Thanks Sacha!)
