Yokohama Shed

The tree,
Its branches spread outwards
Broken twigs
No leaves, flowers nor buds.

A tin shed
Hastily scrap built
Hewn from bombed lands
Resplendent, without splendour.

Tokyo’s police sabaoth,
Eyes closed, palms opened
All weapons withdrawn
Replaced with staves.

Men labour under the sun
Bare backed
Drenched in sweat
Muscles torn.

All the confiscated arms
Stacked into crates
Taken south of the border
By Yokohama shipmates

All safety stowed
Wooden gates slammed shut
And padlock clicked
A safe new world.

Yet, the American observers
Venture to their shed
With checklist papers
To pry at empty boxes.
 

Reviews

[Emily B]

The words are starke and sere. The story worries me a little. Maybe because I would be a stranger in a strange land. You've drawn a complete picture here.