Rose Cottage

You will not see ivy clinging to brick walls,
nor the cross-hatching of trellises.
On summer evenings the aroma of honeysuckle
does not feather the abdomen.
Out of blueness that hurts irises and pupils,
helicopters hovering like humming birds and bees,
drop out of the desert,
bringing them back in twos and threes.
They are taken to Rose Cottage,
tagged, bagged, ready for inspection.
While far away in houses with trellises and ivy,
and honeysuckle redolent of memory and heart's ease,
families hedge the roads from dawn,
awaiting the arrival of dead sons.