(service resettlement courses at studio fronceri â€" west wales)

and the swords came in their varying degrees
of shininess and sharpness â€" some never
having lost their pristine feel â€" others with blunt
tips and broken blades â€" a few so steeped in blood
a dried rustiness still stained them - and those wilted
at the hilt (weary of the code that bred them)

they came at the end of their long days of death-
imagined drills and disciplined submissions
times of pride (trapped tongues and rank obedience)
seeking a balmier game-play for their fingers
they learned languages of metal wood and stone
translated scrubbed land to a fond oasis

built (at last) for themselves and not their service
sowed peace's patchwork on their shot desires
maybe loosened what dreams had long since bolted
and dared to sigh like breezes (old storms' goodbyes)
they came as swords (not keen on transformations)
and (landscapes reconditioned) left as ploughshares