Off on one side in my head. Only
Way to say it. Christmas does it to me
Every time.

I'm dangerous now. Squad don't know
But Inside hardly soldier anymore.  
Standing orders, tactics, kit and all

That stuff replaced by unmilitary                                              
Wondering at the sky,
Or the beauty of the brackets of the forward sight
That frame the blade, the 'I': the part of me
That is my target every time I fire.

Still, my private holiday tomorrow: I will
Close eyes on blinding sand
And wake in chilly splendour of
A Northern wood with bracken underfoot,

And  streams and lichened rocks,
And lowering clouds, a scattering of birds across the wind,
And peace.