The ballerina in a
Dying piruette
Signals the end
Of her show,
Black putrid, billowing
Twisting and devious
As any smoke engaged
In this work
Must go.
But those who
Would not remain
Are as loathed to
Turn around
As were their bullets
Reluctant to maime
Or ****,
Afraid of breaking
The spell
And being dragged back
Into screaming hell
Instead of gently
Led away through
The buttercups on the
Side of the hill.
A solitary line
Of shuffling feet
Retreating bodies,
Some ghosts
Belatedly anointed
By fine summer rain
Coming too late
To dampen the pain,
Inside the bullet burns
And intermingled
With cries, birdsong returns
Conjuring up
Farmyard smells
Capturing boyhood laughter,
A cosy bedroom
Like a stabbing
In the side
Starts the tears again,
So soon
As when my gallant
Friends and I
With unbeknown
Sadness, rode out
One sunny afternoon
Down to the fields
Of shame
And straight into
Certain madness.