.....
I look back on a time,
When flasks did not have bullet holes.
When what little liquid within,
Did not leak and evaporate,
Did not line mantelpieces,
Like trophies for victory attained
By not relinquishing one’s life.
I think on those I have lost.
My entire Pals Battalion.
The men whose torn bodies hung from trees,
Gently placed by explosions.
Fabric limbs drooped ancient boughs that
Twist and writhe in the agonies. Left unexpressed.
I see them now, when I am hoping not to,
The unexpected hallucinatory glance, when midday suns
lit up pale white faces of fallen friends,
that those around stepped on.
I remember that day, a loss of time, with a flash,
The slowing of action, motion and expression,
The ebb of space creating a noiseless vacuum
Like the embracing reunion of oblivion,
And finally, for you, the explosion,
When the whizz-bang, fell.
Missed by me.
V.A.D.’s ran the run of Nightingale.
Helping those, laid out, long past help.
Treated N.Y.D.N, I paid respects.
What the fuck was shaking all about?
Tears slip down my dry mud-cracked face,
Creating miry grief channels.
So now reclining, I look at the fan,
That whirrs like rota blades, above my head,
And think on its ringing, wining, coiling show of steel.
It’s all I can do, just kneel
and pray for those led away
On that clear, yet cloudy, shell-shock giving day.
.....















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