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War PhotographerIn his dark room he is finally alonewith spools of suffering set out in ordered rows.The only light is red and softly glows,as though this were a church and hea priest preparing to intone a Mass.Belfast. Beirut. Phnom Penh. All flesh is grass.He has a job to do. Solutions slop in traysbeneath his hands, which did not tremble thenthough seem to now. Rural England. Home againto ordinary pain which simple weather can dispel,to fields which don’t explode beneath the feetof running children in a nightmare heat.Something is happening. A stranger’s features
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Light, Tone, Phnom Penh, dark room, War Photographer, softly glows, ural England