August 28, 2012 27 Comments
The soldier fights a war every day,
the enemy and elements of a foreign land.
He takes the cold, the heat,
the rain and sandstorms
that close around him,
clinging like the stench of fear
he felt when the boy appeared,
not more than twelve,
carrying death in his hand,
exploding into entrails
glistening by the roadside.
Covered in dirt, sweat and blood
he slumps against a wall,
and pulls out the picture
of his pretty wife, their child
who reminds him of the boy,
the innocence reflected in his eyes.
He will come this way again,
to the intersection of a moment,
as he patrols disfigured streets
full of hatred for his kind.
On this winter’s morning,
the sun throws its web of light
across the fields of home.
Taken From Phases of the Moon
Copyright © 2012 Louise Hastings
Excerpt appears courtesy of Winter Goose Publishing
Linking this poem to dVersepoets Open Link Night