There was a skeleton
of a German soldier in
a ditch; his helmet still
in place, the uniform
mud-stained. In a pocket
a sepia photo of some girl
smiling with curly hair,
looking out with her dark
eyed stare. His comrades
and army had moved away;
pushed back with last week's
shelling. Albert inhaled his
cigarette. It was hard to
picture him now crippled
with arthritis and age in
war's fight and mud and
lice, singing an old song
amidst the throng. He
gazed at me; his eyes
glassy; smoke from the
cigarette rising past eyes.
We left him there, Albert
said, had to move on,
Haig's orders, our sergeant
said. Death was all around
us; bodies, limbs and heads;
horses lying in mud wounded
moaning or dead. The stink
of war, boy; gets in your hair
and clothes and nose and skin,
in the soul, if we have one, within.
Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 3:33 PM UTC
There was a skeleton
of a German soldier in
a ditch; his helmet still
in place, the uniform
mud-stained. In a pocket
a sepia photo of some girl
smiling with curly hair,
looking out with her dark
eyed stare. His comrades
and army had moved away;
pushed back with last week's
shelling. Albert inhaled his
cigarette. It was hard to
picture him now crippled
with arthritis and age in
war's fight and mud and
lice, singing an old song
amidst the throng. He
gazed at me; his eyes
glassy; smoke from the
cigarette rising past eyes.
We left him there, Albert
said, had to move on,
Haig's orders, our sergeant
said. Death was all around
us; bodies, limbs and heads;
horses lying in mud wounded
moaning or dead. The stink
of war, boy; gets in your hair
and clothes and nose and skin,
in the soul, if we have one, within.
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