(A defence of my profession)
We needed refreshing:
We went through the regular ritual
Of proving ourselves worthy to witness;
We ran around Berkshire dressing fake wounds,
And talking our way through theatrical roadblocks.
We told our stories:
Of rockets and bombs and Stoic acceptance
Of the worst that could possibly happen;
The strength of teams that share horror
And the callous indifference of those who stay away.
We heard silently
About the Tsunami baby, one of thousands,
Dead for days, eaten by maggots, fought over by dogs;
About the good man who, with generator fuel
Cremated the corpse, and then wept.
We shared his guilt:
We go, we see, we report a cleaned-up fraction,
And then we leave, we go home, we live.
But the nearest many come to Justice
Is for us to tell their story, and care enough
To weep later.