On learning that Russian mothers buy their soldier sons lucky belts inscribed with Psalm 90 to wear into battle

Before the hills were raised from the deep,
and the world fixed to the sky, you were there,
turning men back to the lowness from whence they came
by stopping the gas flame, and making the payments
impossibly high for communal services
and the alcohol extremely cheap;

Return to muddy tracks and prison wastes
ye sons and daughters of men, return to your reality tv, and the dust.
Because time on the front line can last a thousand years
Or, like a night watch, end in a bright blast –

But for every one gone, a thousand more flourished
like wallpaper paste, like sharp grass or fox cubs
like toothpaste supplies for dragon’s teeth
pale-blue, malnourished
little books of litmus stubs
torn out and chucked away, leaf by leaf.
...