Mogadishu 1980.

Container ships mobbed the Quay

false horizon against the sea

Grey funnel line, prow secured

Weapons issued; safety ensured

Hooked to the shore, but ready to run.

Into watches, the day work done.

Leaning on a guardrail, smoking, gawking,

at downcast women, lurking, stalking.

On the quay hessian drips rice

surrounded by men rolling dice.

They twirl and swirl their pick helves

menacing, keep the crowd from making delves.

A coughing, spluttering wagon belches men.

They lift the bounty, tick off list with pen.

Hoist and haul on torn shirt backs,

bulging, leaking, life extending sacks.

Swift efficient, free of glitches

now canvas covers, hide the riches.

The lorries leave, the guarding done

we watchers, watch evolving scrums

Insects swirl beneath arc lights

below which, hunger driven fights.

Squat, manspreaded clothing receptacle

seek UN grains, no sporting spectacle.

They squabble, nudge, grub and pillage

something to take back to their village

and cook in dodgy water under battered lids.

might as well be that that kills their kids?

if not starvation then blood and gore

in this pointless, white man’s, vicarious war.

Later, on a darkened bridge, a pipe for dinner

Not so hungry now, we leave, grimmer.

Yet still, cheap tin trays are loaded,

with cargoes of food for the morally goaded.

Steak, or omelette, chips and figgy duff

no one cares what each other stuffs.

the occidental burden slips,

as tonight we cannot see beyond the tips

of forks or bowls of a spoon.

Whilst ashore, starvation under an African moon.