Carol Ann Duffy

Far Be It

Far, far, far
be it from me
this war;

far be it from me
to sieve the news
for poetry.

But the boy who bled
from his stumps of arms
and wasn’t dead

held the shape of the crucifix
they hung around my neck
when I was a kid.

Brought to my knees, I genuflect,
shaking with rage and shame
at the TV set.