I picture you crouching on the ground
in the hot sun, your pockets full of soil
and pieces of torn cloth; a friend waiting
in the parked ambulance calls you doctor
as a ruse for passers-by. She has driven
you eighty kilometres west of Baghdad
to search for clues outside this military site.
I see her sitting in the driver's seat, eyes
peeled for passing police and the motor
running while you scour the dust.
You could be an angler digging for worms
or a patient from the local asylum scratching
the earth for gold. But the police are already
ahead of you. The ground beneath your
feet is caving in, your star is coming
down all over Iran, little pieces getting
into newsreels; your family and friends
already know of your tragic fate.
When the police pick you up at the airport,
you have fists of Iraqi soil in your pockets,
dirt under your fingernails.
                                              Six months later,
early morning and I'm driving through
the Wicklow Hills. The sun falls 
on the spiders deadly gossamer,
the dew weeps in the grass. 
Tears fall from the petals
of wild flowers when I hear over the radio,
news of the trap-door opening.
I stop the car dead in its tracks.