. . War’s infection spreads from the borders: this year, last year, next – honoured rites of slaughter. The phoenix flutters gaudy wings of sorrow. When war is the plough, crops of bone must follow. . .’ Momentary balance, like a huge standing rock, its support of earth and shale eroded by seasons of rain. It could fall in any direction, crushing the unwary, or merely roll down the hillside to settle with a crash, throwing up clouds of dust. So it is in the village square. The rock of war could fall any way. Youngest Son’s face! I cannot help staring. I recognise the colour of those eyes, his grandfather’s eyes, but not the haughty, military way he narrows his eyelids as though perpetually angry. That is something he has learnt from others. I know the shape of his cheeks, not the scar disfiguring one side, the battle which gave it birth. He is familiar, and undiscovered. He sits on his white charger, still as a statue.
