Yesterday, British PM David Cameron stood in parliament and did a noble thing - took complete heed of the truth of a situation and morally spoke out, calling the Bloody Sunday massacre "unjustified and unjustifiable". This was a brave and correct step, and not entirely what one might have expected from a Tory; many in the military establishment, for instance, are being more ambiguous already. Meanwhile, speaking of military men, General Petraeus, in America, being grilled by none other than Senator McCain, fainted, when asked when troops would leave Afghanistan; in an instant of perhaps minor weakness, the unfortunate soldier may have disbarred himself from a presidential run in 2012. Some commentators think the report into Bloody Sunday signals the end of British imperial adventures, an end to an often shameful colonial past. Not quite. The guns are still abroad, in Afghanistan, for example. And the Queen - for good and ill - is still on the Canadian dollar. Vestiges maybe. But the sun has not yet set, just yet.
A poem for my mother, July 15 When she was dying And I was in a different country I dreamt I was there with her Flying over the ocean very quickly, And arriving in the room like a dream And I was a dream, but the meaning was more Than a dream has – it was a moving over time And land, over water, to get love across Fast enough, to be there, before she died, To lean over the small, huddled figure, In the dark, and without bothering her Even with apologies, and be a kiss in the air, A dream of a kiss, or even less, the thought of one, And when I woke, none of this had happened, She was still far distant, and we had not spoken.
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