There is a peace At the beginning, Before things happen; The peace of the not-yet. There is a peace while in the centre of action, The peace that takes a break In the middle of the whirlwind. There is, too, the peace That is the aftermath of war And toil, and struggle: This peace is not always happy. This may be the peace of death, of regrets Of waste, of what might have been. Is this sad peace, the deteritus of destruction, Always welcome? Is peace always better than war? Peace…without serenity, without prosperity Is just the cessation of foul acts Without the hope of its continuance. Peace can often be Tears in a widow’s eye A maimed limb, The passing of what was good and happy In a life lived just a while ago. Peace can the quietness Of the broken body of a girl, Mauled bestially, and left to bleed. Peace can be the loneliness In a home when one partner has walked out. Peace can be the quite of a crash site Where people are looking for bodies. Peace…not welcome when it’s just a piece Of conflict, pain and sorrow.