The Iran-Iraq War
The roadside soft with dust, the threadbare hills,
The teahouse with its incongruous velvet couch,
The felt-capped boy stopping with his goats to stare:
Dusk drew these together in a frail coherence
As the moon rose, strengthening through deep-blue air.

In that dry numinous light, it seemed, the country
Lay changelessly far off, and the childish face
Unreachably open between domed cap and coat.
I count the years now to reckon the herdboy's age,
And guess title sequel. No village was too remote.

The Fawn
Starting, clumsy and graceful,
From the clumps of bracken at my feet

A fawn tumbles downhill -
...