The mud is not as cruel as the cold,
And the cold is not as biting as the dread.
We huddle in the trenches, young and old,
Counting the living, envying the dead.
The rats chew softly through the canvas bags,
And matches flicker out against the damp.
We wrap our frozen feet in dirty rags,
And wait for morning by a dying lamp.
The whistle blows. A sharp, collective breath.
We surge into the grey unwelcoming air,
To dodge the screaming messengers of death,
Through tangled wire and craters of despair.
A flash of fire, a roar that splits the dawn,
The world tilts violently, then falls away.
My eyes are blind, my khaki red and torn,
As I sink into the warm, forgiving clay.
The silence returns, gentle as a dove.
I open my eyes, the smoke begins to clear.
The trenches vanish, replaced by those I love,
My mother weeping, holding me so near.
"You’re safe," she whispers, wiping back her tears,
"Your war is done, you're back in your own bed."
I smile and sigh, forgetting all my fears,
As the orderly lifts the white sheet o’er my head