In here a groan rises as a mist,
a guttural prayer
in coughed blood.
The candlelight whispers
an unutterable secret
on every rafter.

Heaving over
his leaden spine
he wonders when does death become
something breathtaking.

And not a voyage back somewhere he knows,
as he thinks
to a picture
of England

that bore him a son and wife
And every Friday night at the Red Lion
And darts and a pint.
And his rifle.

He saw god once in his child
and once in a French field hospital
as a man with metal red spit
lain on his back.