Dark, Remote…
Darkness forms an embryo,
A temporary succour,
As he sits on clay,
Knees bent over a grimy, damp sandbag astray.
Head hangs
Miserably, like on a noose
Over a pawed notebook
And a pencil nub.
And his words written of fear
Are barely legible
‘Neath his hung lamp’s meagre lucidity
And the dulling effect of liquor…
Yet still he muses…
Remoteness curses his resolve,
A salutary rancour,
As he weeps on mire,
Mind spent under blunt clumps of fire.
Death hangs
Dishonourably upon this recluse,
Over his flawed notebook
And the hubbub.
And his thoughts scribbled in fear
Are barely discernible
‘Neath his demeanour’s implausible absurdity
And the dimming reflex of valour…
Yet only he loses…
Pete Ray
Thoughts of a WW1 soldier sitting, terrified, attempting to write in a trench, surrounded by fear.
Horrific.
REMEMBERING GRANDAD RAY... 
...& GRANDAD HEDGES, SEATED ON A CHAIR, CENTRE...
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.