There’s a field of sunflowers, fertilised
with blood and bone that’s fallen from the sky.
A forensic crop, to be scrutinised
for every seed of truth; felled from on high.
There’ll be a harvest of human debris,
a reassembling of the scatterings.
There’ll be an inquest into tragedy
with assessment of its smatterings.
And all of this… and all of this for what?
A crime scene, rich with humanity’s loss.
A battle field, a war zone; someone’s plot
eternal, and ‘they’ couldn’t give a toss.
. Scatterings – the source of recovery.
. Smatterings – the course of discovery.
© Tim Grace, 13 September 2014
To the reader: Civilian passengers and crew, on MH17, were victims of a missile attack. Aircraft and human debris landed in a field of sunflowers in Ukrane’s disputed territory. Embattled circumstances surrounding the crime scene created a forensic nightmare. The inexplicable nature of the horrific attack was worsened by a lack of responsibility or remorse shown by those who perpetrated the crime.
To the poet: Looking back on my draft, this sonnet was written in one session without much editing required. At the time of writing, there was a pervasive sense of frustration being expressed by nations seeking compassionate resolution. Without reserve, the sonnet depicts a wantonly wasteful tragedy… highlights the futility of war.