Cities - a poem

This is an unusual poem for me in that it is very firmly fixed in time by events in Iraq in 2003. It's also a longer poem than I usually write. A good friend and poet told me he thought it was too personal but I have always had faith in it as a poem - not always the case with me and my work. Every time I read it it takes me back to that time, those places and the huge change that was happening in my life.

Cities

The endless crowd teems in Glasgow
As I walk - half-run - down the wrong streets,
Scan the infinity of faces passing,
Looking for you hopelessly among thousands.
In memory I zoom out from my searching figure.
I vanish as the crowds become streams,
The streets rivers, that day in Glasgow a memory.

Across the world, British troops in Basra - US in Baghdad,
Unconfirmed reports of the death of Chemical Ali,
Rubble in the streets, frightened children, looters,
All the while the hawks circling above
And the eternal sound of bombs, near and far,
A constant reminder.

Paris in cold spring sunshine, Montparnasse,
Un cafe at Le Select as the peace marchers pass.
"George Bush! Assassin!
Retrait les troops US!"
I knew you could not be there
But searched for your face nonetheless,
Knew your heart was there, against the bombs,
On the side of the children and the angels.

Back in Kinning Park underground,
Knowing it was hopeless, I found my cheeks wet with tears
That had crept out and caught me unawares,
Betrayed my position to the enemy.
"Haw look! That man's greetin'..."

"Tony Blair! Terroriste!
George Bush! Assassin!
Retrait! Retrait! Retrait les troops US!"
Still I carry out security checks on the faces as they pass,
My vantage position on Montparnasse,
Knowing you will escape undetected.

The last throes of Baghdad,
Power struggle aftermath,
Looters arrested, shot,
Saddam fled, right-hand man surrenders,
Gory scenes in hospitals an afterthought in the World News.

Night in Glasgow, Buchanan Street empty
Save for a doorway sleeper and a drunk straggler.
I know you cannot be there but still I search.
Midnight in Pere Lachaise.
The dead of wars and Nazi camps,
Broken hearts and broken promises,
Are still in the quiet dark.
Monuments and sculptures stare coldly at eternity.

Overhead in Baghdad the planes circle
For eternity it seems,
And the chanting crowds are ghosts
Receding as they pass my shade
There at my post waiting for you to pass
My phantom checkpoint in in Montparnasse.

I wrote this (or rather finished it) in April 2003 but it still resonates with me each time I read it. Maybe it is too personal, as my friend said,  but I don't think it is difficult or obscure.  Then again,  I wouldn't, would I?