what sunrays crest the mouldered skull,
how pundits drivel for pride’s purpose!
masses slumped in ruined guile
mouthfuls to a prudent ear.
all down this lurching hell I mull,
how mud rolls off the natural femur!
bodies spared a bludgeon’s trial
sojourn in the rot of years.
discord’s touch directed here
an ebb & flow of morbid sort
her scepter straining far to catch
a branch splintered by howitzers.
dissonant as olive drab
one plough pulls up a loud retort
echoes of some nightman’s watch
the fatal shell’s full whirling mirth.
‘neath dawn’s gold-shroud drive opal dusts
each trench gangrenous in a lull
fluted jowl suspends its shouts
carnelian fog divides the clear.
no blanket or a bier to shade
the pulsing loam so brimming full
of youthful frames not so splayed out
Folded over, so austere.
I accidentally posted this before it was finished. Now it’s finished. Inspired by the melancholy feeling of the whole Great War. I feel as if there was a certain horror in images of this carnage that no war before or since has been able to replicate , even if others had a greater human cost. Men with injury of every limb and part, men with horribly mutilated faces begging on the street, starving. I mean not to be depressing or to say that I can understand or put to paper the hell that was the War. I only mean to ensure people still think about what so many went through only a century ago.