Something of human pity
woke to the mystery of God that day,
a soldier a creature of conflict
mouth shut made no moan.
Could mercy cover the face
of such perfect suffering,
I vomit against such a
thought
The padre recited
his textbook prayer
blasphemies,
He was calling on the dead,
but the dead made no answer.
within my curses and contempt,
a penny whistle now plays
across the fields of Passchendaele,
for the unknown
hapless seekers
who are doomed to die.
Tommy Morant and Archie Coombs
shivering in the trench
knowing that their heads
will be blown clean off
the moment they get the order to “Scramble!”
Some dark being of nothingness
decides who will live and who will die
Night will come
with a gust of wind
and a laughing moon
