The Archibald Baxter Memorial Trust 

I so don’t approve of war, soldier.
Every morning, come what may, I salute you
from my bathroom window. If I could I would
fling stepping stones into the harbour, anchor
a boardwalk into the sandbar, re-orchestrate
the tides. But boats would run aground, soldier,
and gulls be dazed by the rock-solid
obstacle they’d find in their everyday
path of flight.

I so want to live, and love, poet.
Every morning, without ceremony, my face is set
to your window. If I could I would
tell you my dreams to save the world, build
bridges between nations, bring home trophies
of peace for the mantel. But soldiers
are staunch, poet, and my aspirations made
folly, muddied and trampled on, shot down
by uncouth commands to fight at all cost.

I so don’t approve of war, soldier.
Every afternoon, as circumstance dictates, I greet you
from my bathroom window. If I could I would
walk on water, trail kelp and cockles
up the banks, join you for a picnic and sweet
idle chatter on the hill. I’d lay you down, untie
your army-issue boots, let breathe your tired
feet: I’d put you in direct contact
with air and ground.

I so want to live, and love, poet.
Every afternoon, come rain or shine, my eyes
are cast to your window. If I could I would
fly on wings, march bootless to your rhythms,
shout sonnets along the hills. I’d sit high
on rocky outcrops with you, sun on our faces,
let the wind’s breath rustle a refrain
of un-regimented words to fill the breech
and sling across our shoulders.

I so don’t approve of war, soldier.
Every evening, as night follows day, I light a candle
and blow you kisses from my bathroom window. If honour
and proximity allowed it, I would invite you
in. In the measurable distance between there
and here, you and I have already seen the worst
and best of each other; you from where you stand
on the raised eyebrow of your hill, I
through my mirage of water.

I so want to live, and love, poet.
Every evening, no matter what, my head turns
to your window, I see your candle glow
in the deepening dark of harbour cleft, feel
your blown kisses on my brow, and stand disarmed,
ill-at-ease in my weathered pride. For you and I know, poet,
there is no honour in war; it strips the colours of life
from a warm chest, leaves a chill in the bones
of water rippling between us.

If I could I would
fling stepping stones into the harbour, anchor
a boardwalk into the sandbar, re-orchestrate
the tides. If honour and proximity allowed it, I would
invite you in. In the measurable distance between there
and here, you and I have seen the worst
and best of each other; you from where you stand
on the raised eyebrow of your hill, I
through my mirage of water.