As Aleppo was bombed
we went in search of early spider orchids.
Our rubble, turf, fragrant with ghosts
of violets. This season’s grass
pushing up, inquisitive, towards the blue,
as a hospital tumbled.
As a hospital tumbled,
our birdsong broken
by the droning of a cargo plane
labouring below the skyline
into the shadow of the next valley.
No need to take cover.
Not here. Not now.