Through the Cold of a Russian Winter
Through the
cold of a Russian winter
they flee
the one home they have known,
dragging a
case of possessions
and wearing
every garment they own.
chill winds
freeze their faces and toes -
‘Where’s
Daddy?’ the children cry, weeping.
Mother cuddles
them – ‘God only knows.’
without
heating to ward off the cold,
so they
huddled in bomb-shelter basements –
the mothers,
the children, the old.
turns from
spring back to winter each day,
but we
welcome the exhausted strangers –
how could we
turn them away?
Hell will
freeze hard ere we trust Russia again.