HELEN BOWELL – NORTH EAST

Wandering

 

I wandered forty years for you, an angry man

in an angry desert, stomping out the hundred

thousand million miles home.

 

They followed me as if I knew what I was doing,

as if you’d told me anything, as if you’d given me

a single word.

 

Yes, you provided sand-encrusted bread, and a stick

that once parted the sea, but the death you pushed

into my hands – you made a blind executioner of me,

lord, a helpless ruler whose utility was measured

in plagues and hangings.

 

How could you punish sheep for misunderstanding?

 

As I slaughtered thousands of my own I could only pray

you’d be kinder. I could only search each sandy second

for something yet unbroken. Some peaceful land would be

a nice token.

 

Lord, I don’t want your desert Love,

your human Milk or bloody Honey:

in this sick Sinai heat, they’re all going off.