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Author Name: FreeMortartube 2 Comments
Date Added: April 18, 2009 06:04:30 Average Score: (Needs 2)
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Category: Historical Add To Favorites | Text Only
 
The Trench

 

A wrenching knotted stomach, rifle in my hand.

 

Grey mud to fight and die for here, and there, in no Mans land.

 

Cordite smoke and cigarettes pervade the morning air.

 

Waterlogged holes dug in the clay, we wallow in the mire.

 

Ten minutes so they say, until we live or die,

 

Skulls and bones jut out of mud from where they fell and lie.

 

I saw a man just last week, with whom I’d oft supped ale.

 

He laughed at sunrise and died at noon in the carnage of Passchendaele.

 

The man who sits next to me is weeping silent tears.

 

Another writes a letter home, allaying parents fears.

 

Up and run from this madness is my instinctive urge,

 

An unseen harmonica, down the line, recalls a mournful dirge.

 

For King and country so they said, a shilling for your time,

 

To stand in the town hall lobby and sign the dotted line.

 

Bring your pals they all said, you’ll miss them all and pine

 

I lost three just the other day from a faulty sappers mine.

 

The time ticks by in my mind, the minutes soon accrue,

 

How many left until over the top, three or only two?

 

I’ll light a Woodbine, I look down, only seven left.

 

Is it lucky seven or will my parents be bereft?

 

I hold my rifle ever close. I feel the tightening grip,

 

The Sergeant takes out his pocket watch, the whistle to his lips.

 

The lookout peers above the parapet, the snipers bullets whine.

 

The Sergeant looks us up and down, “Come on lads it’s time”

 

We stand upon our trembling legs at the dawning of the day,

 

“Don’t go back” The Sergeant says “Leave shot friends where they lay”.

 

The whistles blast, the thumping heart, ready for the push,

 

We scramble wooden ladders, a seething ordered rush.

 

Just twenty yards of mud and mire before the searing pain,

 

I fall hard behind the wire and my blood begins to drain,

 

Mingling with the stagnant pools, I cease to hear or see,

 

in the corner of some foreign field, will be forever me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author's Notes:
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'The Trench' Copyright © Keith J
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Comments:
Comment By: Freee. Gene Myers on October 5, 2009 10:51:33 PM Report
Well, if you lived to write it, it was inspired, not totally lived.  If you live through any part of it I'm glad you came back.  I'd have hated to miss this one.  Brought back familure memories.  nicely written
Comment By: PremiumEric Siedzikowski on September 11, 2009 04:41:10 AM Report
Very noble and notable creation of writing that deserves all of the praise in the world and I will start that becoming of laud right here,right now.Great poem here!!!!! Hats off to this poet!!




 


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