War Quiet

Milk hearted, a timid stunt

of drifts and thieves distorted

 

the silks of a grave surpassed -

a  lay  unchartered, where fray

 

and wound next glory became

a khaki hill without a name.

 

The tame of each dread root

thwarted – the tip of each snapped finger

 

larked, and dipped its fever

into parts of men long since lost -

 

a thousand yards of misspent youth

martyred in the frost.

 

◄ Pyjama Nimble

Drift Kindly ►

Comments

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Marianne Louise Daniels

Tue 8th May 2012 15:31

Thank you - what kind thoughts you share, and much appreciated. I am very humbled by this.

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Noetic-fret!

Mon 7th May 2012 22:29

Hi Marrianne,

This poem speaks of those who've died during war from winters grip. I particularly like the 4th stanza that ends 'the tip of each snapped finger'......trigger finger perhaps? Or frostbite.

Brilliant work yet again. I suppose many think your work is difficult to understand and in the main it does make you think of many different meanings. But all the better for it.

Nice one Marrianne,

Keep posting.

Mike

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