Night watch.

Though 

hazy 

now. 

The freezing cold. 

Curled tightly 

around 

the low-burning fire. The stars 

unearthed 

through the olive branches. 

The waves rhyming.

We switched the generator 

to silence 

so a rubber boat’s 

arrival 

could pierce 

our listening 

easily. 

Though still, 

we scrambled 

up the abandoned lookout 

to peer 

through the night 

at every 

slightest 

flutter, every 

whirr 

of life.

We always kept the water ready 

to boil.

A feeble 

cup of tea

to say

sit down, 

you have time,

you are safe enough

to sip. 

I always say

the watch 

taught me how to live 

as if to say

we will stay awake through the night for you.

But why weren’t we awake before they made it to the water?

(These words are about my days in the refugee crisis on Lesvos, or maybe something else.)