My poor legs are cramped so badly and I
If I move from this ditch I know I will die,
I can't look at the Private's white face any more.
The hole in his gut gazing up at the sky.
He stopped his screaming but ten minutes before.
Filthy face, and bloody too, from earth that blooms
When Howitzers speak in dull thumps and loud booms,
Pea shooters, the Sergeant nearby had growled,
If peas grew as large as cabbages and howled,
From large metal bores death has sprayed,
As they flew, carving craters dug deep as graves.
Clouds tatter above me like clothes left to dry,
My hands won't stop shaking, no tears left to cry.
The minutes drag slowly as I hide from death,
I gasp, my ribs aching, from holding in breath.
If I move from this ditch I will die.