WORLD WAR ONE COMPASS: A NEW POEM BY THE MOWDOG...

World War One Compass: No Direction…

There was no direction,

Just blindly led by blind militarism

And whim:

There was no questioning the sudden strife,

Or any justification

For the loss of life…

Across my knees his neck rested,

Blood drying in mud’s stench

And spilled upon my dishevelled puttees, torn

From my calves by the blast’s intrusion,

Which destroyed our forward trench…

Gripped in his palm, a compass rested.

Bloodied, I reached, its beauty to wrench

From a lifeless cold hand, forlorn:

An invasive theft in slaughter’s seclusion,

Within the detritus of a destroyed trench…

It displayed no direction,

Just cruelly led by cruel militarism

And whim:

There was no questioning the induced strife,

Or any vindication

For the waste of life…

Pete Ray

(Self-isolating, 25th March 2020)   

Managed to acquire a World War One compass and wanted to write something fictional about it.

The idea was that I lay in a destroyed trench with a dead officer across my legs. 

As he died his compass had been gripped in one hand.

I took it.