Story telling from Australia
Move him into the sun —
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown…
I sat in the sun to drink my tea this morning, listening to birdsong and the sound of children playing on their way to school. I’m back in the desert oasis of Broken Hill, where the almond tree has blossomed and the tomatoes, broccoli and sugar peas are all sprouting thanks to a welcome burst of late winter sunshine. It’s good to be home, if only for a few weeks.
But the winds of war are blowing. News reports on the radio speak of the growing likelihood of military intervention in Syria; Barack Obama is garnering support for military action and last night the British parliament narrowly voted against intervention. They’re planning another vote once the UN weapons inspectors submit their report.
Hold on. Why is anyone voting on anything before the weapons inspectors have finished their job? Have we learnt nothing from recent history?
We rushed into Iraq believing Saddam Hussein had weapons of mass destruction and was in a position to launch an attack on London within 20 minutes. It was wrong, on every level.
I can’t help thinking that people in Syria are threatened as much by the growing civil war as they are by the prospect of military intervention. Millions are fleeing to seek refuge in neighboring Lebanon, and no wonder; the main casualties in any war are always civilians.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds —
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs so dear-achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, — still warm, — too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
— O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth’s sleep at all?
Fools rush in where angels fear to tread.