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Poem	(service resettlement courses at studio fronceri – west wales) and the swords came in their varying degrees of shininess and sharpness – some never having lost their pristine feel – others with blunt tips and broken blades – 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
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