The Somme Sunset

Sun swollen
reddening as it sank
that brutal bloody disc
scored by church steeples
and chimney stacks
almost lost in the drifting haze
of sulphurous yellow
and char-black smoke.

Duck boards dip
into the sodden earth
as men tramp along in conga lines
holding tight the pack of the man
in front, lest they should slip
lose quick their footing
be sucked down and smothered
by mud.

The walls of the tunnels
are packed earth
rich with blood and bone
bits and pieces of human
anatomy dangle and hang
as if posed by an artist
with a strange and cruel eye
for detail.

The scrabble for fox holes
and rough scraped ditches,
anywhere, below the line of fire.
The ting and whiz-bang
of a night of action
The whistle, the dash
and the forward push
counted more in men
than metres.

© M.L.Emmett

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3 Comments

Filed under Poem, Sunset, War

3 responses to “The Somme Sunset

  1. Your poetry is poignant and professional. This kind of piece can stand the test of time. The final stanza was just the perfect finish.

    Like

  2. Poignant is not the word. I meant powerful.

    Like

  3. magicpoet01

    Thank you for your kind and positive feedback, Heath

    Like

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