for Sir Anthony Blair

In the shops of Leith, cower
crowds fleeing from the power
of tornados flying o’er

When a mother, growing bolder
is buzzed and dies, once holder
of a sword held at a shoulder

And crouched there in the shade
of a darkness he has made –
the knight that was tapped by the blade.

His waist, forgotten, holds
a girdle of green and gold,
marked by blood, and cold.

Thus; The waste of kingly treasure
and holy life will measure
the sins of the aggressor.