Awaiting shape out there: the battle lines
above the trenches, with the mud, the wire,
at sun up; soon, so very soon.

Frightened by the claustrophobic dark,
cramped men in tunnelled earth redoubts
taste mist over the battlefield,

wait for a whistle blast they dread,
feel the promise in the pre-dawn light,
remember the colours of death.

Terror soaks palms despite the cold,;
there’s  fear of cowardice and lack of faith
yet lust sparks that ecstatic urge to fight,

to stab a rifle in the face of fear and scream
to keep the black dog, Shuck, at bay,
the evil riding on your back.

It seems an eternity this tiny stitch in time.
The thunder of the guns is stilled.
Smoke drifts and eddies settle,

cover the dead, the shattered men
whose visions will not fade. Death has won
some savage calm.

*        *           *         *        *       *        *       *

Scattered gravel, blood and craters of decay
a misty stench and muddy pools remain but
life is there – seeds in dark crevices swelling

into form – hope, earth greening with the wayward
sun’s return; wild wheat and barley grasses,
small red miracles, growing like a breath.

Seasons change, the blood red flowers move on
renewing life,  in case we should forget to grieve
for damaged souls who might have died, but lived.

Bryan Thomas                                                                                                (33 lines)
March 2013

Published in

so too have the doves gone reflections on the theme of conflict
Edited by Stephen Boyce  Pam Job & Judith Wolton
Jardine Press Ltd 2014
ISBN: 978-0-9565495-8-7