He Said.

A war poem for the Yesterday is not History competition... my first entry for any competition, hah. It's based on the second World War. My grandad fought in it for the final year and lost his uncle to it, so I based this partly on his accounts.

 

He said that the moon was pale,

A silver sliver in the choking night,

And that it illuminated their prison like cobwebs in a candle.

The deafening thuds and crashes filled

The dusty, dangerous air,

And lived in harmony with the drowning gases.

The ground was thick and uninhabitable,

So even the weary weeds had withered,

But his pride and sense of duty remained intact.

 

He said that men were lost each time he blinked,

So he did not close his eyes for fear of missing his friend,

Or a bullet.

Those who died were left behind,

In panic rather than disgrace,

And where they lay, a dusting of vermillion grew

That hid the smears of crimson caked into the earth,

Running into puddles of filth,

Contaminating where he was forced to cower.

 

He said that one evening, all was still

Yet his eyes were open, taking in reality

And he could hear the others breathe    

As everyone that crouched in the trenches and the shell holes

Put down their weapons                         

And cried a new colour.           

Reviews

[J.Black]

This was pretty good, dang.