The Desert Soldier by Lizzie Grant
The smell of oil sticks in my throat.
Sand, like a bad joke seeps into my soul
And so I close my eyes for a moment
Conjuring green, feeling for London rain.
It falls on my cheeks and catches,
salty in the fold of my lips,
rolls onto and under my chin,
drips, dries and disappears
into the scorched earth.
The sound of gunfire, crackles amid
hissing radio talk.
Krumping - twisted, shrapnel's silver shards
Glint, embedded in the pitted walls.
Night falls to a greenish, ghoulish grey
through nightsights, watching out for others
reflectionless eyes, colourless as ancient busts,
trace the soldiers through cracks
in shuttered windows.
The prayers timely music echoes over rooftops.
Some mother's son,
some father's daughter
falls prey to siren shores
where tortured hearts rock
and lose all reason.
Compassion drowns
but rises, clutching for security,
grasping, gasping for air.
Hope is dragged screaming from the ruins.
Steps are measured in anticipation of pain.
Determination, steels the mind
to carry out each task,
each day a little closer to
homecoming.
I'm some mother's son,
some father's daughter
I open my eyes
searching the desert
for the breath of peace. |
