The sea’s not calm today.
Rough waters have sent the surfers home, leaving the coast clear for marauding zealots who craft their murder round the clock.
Ah, love, who could have dreamed up such a plan?
Just as an Israeli gunboat nears the shore, to have four sweet-faced fisher boys playing footie in the sand, hard by a band of po-faced hacks with cameras – phones - notebooks – even sticking-plasters in their their hands?
The nights are long and hot; the moon is ripe with woe, oozing stale absolution on those meddling in the muddy, foreign waters of human misery.
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(© Natalie Irene Wood – 18 July 2014)