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A soldiers last thoughts.
Darkness takes the fields of grey,
And stalls the soldiers mind,
Abandoned life amongst the fray,
And some they’ll never find.
Uniforms upon the dead,
Inform of rank and file,
Endless bleeding from ones head,
Yet more were cold a while.
Bullets piercing evening’s air,
Invade his frightened heart,
Matted blood restrains his hair,
His shoulder torn apart.
His only solace yet retrieved,
Implying hope was nigh,
A caring hand that he received,
That made the soldier cry.
Side by side throughout the night,
They leant against a wall,
Hand in hand they held on tight,
Not let the other fall.
The soldier talked of life and more,
Of women that he knew,
How green the grass before the war,
The glistening of the dew.
The tyre swing beside the drive,
And clanky iron gate,
And tea was always “half past five,
You’d better not be late.”
In broken tones he told of when,
His little boy had died,
Of how he always blamed himself,
But somehow never cried.
Endlessly the night was torn,
With other soldiers screams,
Incessantly their faith was worn,
Through hazy morphine dreams.
And as his eyes began to weep,
Belief began to fold,
A brief but painless little sleep,
Had left the stranger cold.
Mortality had taken flight,
Not muttered but a word,
He’d been dead now for most the night,
And not a word he’d heard.
Yet to the end the soldiers hand,
Had held his quiet friend,
As both were taken from this land,
True soldiers till the end.
©MadMick 02/03/2011
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