The battlefield is silent now,
In reverence to the dead,
A pageant sound hangs in the air;
The carrion crows have not arrived,
Which in itself is strange,
As the eyes of death, assemble in a stare.
The drummer-boy has sounded
The last beat of his tattoo,
The sergeant majors orders, shout no more,
Their uniforms are not in line
With military concept;
Crumpled up in bloody stains of gore.
The wind gives no contrition,
As it is impeded by the dead,
Flapping at both enemies and friends,
Tearing half held photographs,
That those dying slowly had retained,
Leaving just a limp and empty hand.
© John Anthony Fingleton (Löst Viking)