It starts in the pub, in the back room

where seven drunks are gathered together,
war; it smoulders

in the crèche; the Academy

of Sciences hatches it;

no, in a delivery room in Gori

or Braunau it flourishes, on the net,

in the mosque; it sweats

from the small brain of the patriotic poet;

because someone is offended, because someone

has tasted blood, in God's name,

war rages, on grounds of colour,

in the bunker, for a joke, or by mistake;

because there have to be sacrifices

to save mankind, and these

especially at night, because of the oilfields;

for this, that even self-mutilation

has its attractions and because there's money

war starts, in a delirium

because of a football match;

for no such thing, for heaven's sake; yes, then;

though nobody wanted it; aha;

just like that, for pleasure, heroically

and because we can't think of anything better to do.

· from Lighter Than Air: moral poems (Bloodaxe Books, £8.95)