When cordite-green is stained by mud and blood
hear — slipping — sound of boots that hug our soil;
with faces cut in stone and ash, we wait
for orders to retreat or even worse — attack!
But still a little longer — wait; October rain
is trickling down my back; that woolly itch,
when lunch is shared with rats, as pits are dug
and filled with those that never will go back
to where the smell of harvest soil is clean.
But still we wait, consumed with — hungry — blight;
we wait in sun: we wait in hail; in hell,
we wait for final mortared martyrdom;
we wait (in boredom) ready to be killed or kill
we wait and wait; until that day when finally
we cross the no-mans land and — aiming well —
we shoot the mirror image of ourselves.
Today Gabriella inspires us to write war-poetry at dVerse poetics. To me war has always been about destructive waiting. Maybe it will never be again like those wars of the 20th century. But the image is strong in me. I choose blank verse reminding of a Paradise lost.
October 28, 2014