When the enemy parachutist after a doomed flight,
Wounded, broken and weak, landed in the meadow
Next to the small house that Ann owned – Ann, the farmer’s wife –
Ann took him prisoner, saying, ‘Sorry’.
She dressed his wounds by the fire and
Seized by mercy poured him a hot cup of tea.
Into the hell of anger, into the furious abyss of the nations,
An absurd ray of light burst, shining into the rubble
Of the Satanic scrapheap … and there arose the scent
Of Biblical balsam … nard from Palestine …
It’s beautiful, the aroma of English tea.