This spring morning,

after a midnight storm,

I walk the country road

under a volatile sky

grieving for Gaza’s children.

Passing the golden broom,

the hustling creek,

the mound of rocks

in the council’s paddock

awaiting the disaster,

I grieve for Gaza’s children,

reduced to rubble.

Primo Levi was an obsessive

witness to the evil of Auschwitz,

taking notes with the diligence

of the chemist.

Would he have considered

the destruction of Gaza to be

the ultimate testimony?

I hurry back to shelter,

before the storm returns.