Beneath French farms
stiff oaks under blankets, grey
reclaimed by old Madame, staring,
Bold, bare veins sway in Winter’s blow,
slicing through heads, snare falling snow,
flaked layers rest on wilt leaded crops.
Grown where mown hearts ceased to beat,
bloodied Summer blooms now shoot
above stilled feet,
beneath French farms.
In the same bloody mud… lost last March,
march scared witless, wilting privates,
soiled and scarred.
Bayonets, keen as mustard smog, up to dank knees in putrid bogs,
silhouetted phantoms, the eternal guard.
Ruby lipped Mademoiselles wait
to bathe the privates’ soiled privates…
Today the RSM’s bark booms orders through the fog –
Must go again… the whistle peeps
to gain that yard…
No captain to lead, his voice-box withered, charred…
by bomb shard lead.
He fell dead
on steep clay,
last sneering words…
‘Tosh to the Bosch!’
in the same bloody mud they lost that March.
Still, mithered men, stand to, en guarde…
old wounds scratched by the plough of Jean Claude.
Unearthed pocket book,
leather crinkled, worm worn,
sepia snapped sweetheart, faded and torn.
No Spring Somme sun or skylark’s song
can drown whispering English tongues,
swollen, blistered lips,
of fathers, husbands,
brothers, beaus and sons, who
lie stiff …where they fell,
shoulder to shoulder,
still talking over the village cemetery bell,
still talking of squeezes and teases, from lasses with cleavage,
of warm welcome arms, cold pints, beef barms…
of the day of returning
from beneath French farms.
Write poems of all genres, particularly narrative writes about people, life events and the world we live in. Haikus and Tankas when I can. Like short stories too, a little drama and monologue works also in my stuff. Reside in the Dark Kingdom of Lancashire, England.