the souvenir hunter

the soil dispatched ambassadors
a long time ago
they sought the fallen
in the form of worms
slowly greeting, writhing
sloth like slime, dividing
deleting flesh
from earth
partial skeletons
semi submerged
revelation,a winter winds erosion
a hand still gripping pistol
emerged
as souvenirs you seek
in no mans land
a white knuckle still clasps
a pistol grip
a brass buckle slips
on tin hat rusted
the crown encrusted with holes
a metal jacket
skull leaden slug
cranium
impact
with intact teeth, sinister grin

frozen hold
plundered gold inlays
fading his grave
faint fabric and bone
fetal position thrown
forward by a blast
but the concave still lasts
after all this time, the field
craters eruption imprinted:

with stumbling lament they left

fertile, the poppy fed
soil jet black, still
but surely tinted red.

blissfully blowing this afternoon.

PETE CROMPTON 2007