Rumblings
of War

The Generaliron cannonballs slam
into soft columns
of boys
slinging broken bodies
across the smoky barrenthe charging angry
skip over
these screaming rag-dolls
of grey and blue
as the General surveysnot the hand
of the Almightyhatred roars
from those on their feet
as frightened sobs
call out from the writhing
in this hellon this battered glen
soggy from blood and mud
bayonets gash
and twist
amid hurled cursesnot driven by the hand
of Magnificencethe General regards
his boys dying to the front
and he fights the escape
from his eyes
of a tearracing slivers of fiery metal
rip and tear the young
who bury fear
in the collective strength
of insanitynot from the hand
of GloryIn the center of madness
on furrowed grime
a baby sparrow
struggles
lostand a General
trudges onto the field of war
passing the dead
as tiny balls of lead
spray muck all aboutnot fired by the hand
of Godcalloused fingers
pick up this creature so small
placing him gently
in a downy nest
on a young tree’s boughas the carnage hesitates—
this moment,
for the courageous—
hand of Love

— LD —

Scuttlebutt