OVER THE TOP

 

Dying was the easy bit.

Staying alive: well not so.

When the whistle blew

and frightened men with

bayonets fixed, flew over

the top and into a place

called no-man’s land, well

that’s when the bombs and

shrapnel whistled Holy Hell

 

Some made it back with

shattered limbs and minds

watching as the stretcher

bearers carried back small

pieces of the ones who’d died.

Others waited for the slower

medics, taking a fag from the

padre known as Woodbine

Willie who later lost his life

 

And in the after-math, troops

found a pathway home to kin

who found them changed and

strange, twitching around in

a feverish recycled world – and

re-living pent up events, which

made their consciousness unreal

◄ SHUTTERS

SENSING A PRESENCE ►

Comments

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poemagraphic

Sat 30th May 2020 22:32

This brings the sad truth home again.

I am looking back P as you can see.

This was all too real for me during my time with the LD

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