Cob webs laced with dust
stretch with the ill winds of 1916
Fades of candle light low
volumes of pain touch highs
Haig and his heroic call
muted by sore reality
Stone of the Somme
heavy and inflexible
Busy are the untrained hands
blunt tools gather poison
The dried ink of failure
expressed as blood splatter
Within the mud paste
that smears his broken brow
A single bead of sweat
fears the looming shadow of death
His gaze lost at some strange junction
choices represented by a bold red cross
Amongst the confusing French air
his heart ceases to care
A tag for his cold toe
simple reads 276#
Unaware, a shaken spider
clings to his sticky home
© Copyright 2016 Philip H20s. All rights reserved.
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