from wind-weft rows
of strawberry fields
on Teahill in Stratford
my red-lipped son
plucks plump berries and
samples every other one
and there we stood
in noon-day sun
facing out to sea
and the Qiblih
where lies a land
of strife and tears
and blood-red poetry
beyond dark veils
tonight in flames
are years of persecution
O Teheran O Tahirih
your cries are "revolution!"