You stop to lace your boots
under a broken ash, and breathe
the musk of moss on deadwood.
 
Lifting your head,
you eye the greenness,
and the black earth.
 
So many last looks
make you look blindly,
dull as buckle and bayonet,
 
tarnished by separation,
the hellish jarring
of metal on metal.
 
You stand slowly,
for a moment unshackled.
Your hands shake.
 
Rage comes, and grief,
quiet as a bullet,
the sting of what might have been,
 
and the years of deception
leave you careened
in the dark.
 
Shell flashes make you flinch,
they sing through
the trees like a choir,
 
lace-winged, and on them
you see every road you’ve tramped,
each ruined billet,
 
the field kitchen queue,
a mug of tea with friends,
their faces turned from the light.