Get the fucking stretcher –––– here now! Get it here! Blood is pouring from –––– left of the child’s leg. Med-tent is 200 metres and watch the air – the shrapnel – it is so full. A glance, quickly, buildings at street end are rubble. Patches of street have turned red. Six bodies – rough count – in the road. Where is it? Run! Run! Yes, yes, on her brow, there, there. Go. Breathing –––– breathing –––– breathing –––– breathing –––– Doctors, doctors, off, off the stretcher, now go! Another explosion, nearer explosion and run run for the second. Is she? Is she live? Okay! Your name is? Darja, Darja.
Published by MW Bewick
Writer of poetry and place; editor and journalist. Co-founder of Dunlin Press. Books including Pomes Flixus, The Orphaned Spaces and Scarecrow are available from http://dunlinpress.bigcartel.com View more posts