Dogs were howling. I don’t know what breed
but something like wolves; so maybe Alsatians.
They wouldn’t stop, their noise was contagious.
Soon we were all weeping. When they came,
we quietened, but not the dogs. Soldiers picked
through our debris-scorched field. Most wore
balaclavas. Only yesterday, children had skipped
through us, laughing at how tall we were.
We don’t feel tall now. Soon trucks arrived,
more soldiers. The dead were found, their
pockets emptied. Dogs kept howling. Pieces
of the plane were scattered, some crushed us.
I said, Can we still be called Sunflowers?
And the dogs? They were shot.
FROM ‘SAYING IT WITH FLOWERS’, HEARING EYE, 2016
IssueAugust - September 2023
Image: EMILY JOHNS