row after row after row, presided over
by twin sentinels – a white stone basilica,
and a 50 metre lighthouse tower. Nearby
in a whitewashed shed, a little worse for wear,
25 quaint boxes – dioramas, with
25 quaint goggle eyepieces: what the battler saw.
He saw massacred fields, all grass gone,
a mash of mud and stones and stumps.
He saw bodies: one posed peacefully,
on his back, dead eyes seeming to gaze upwards,
others twisted unnaturally, legs bending wrong
at the knee. He saw open air dormitories
of the dead, side by side in rows.
He saw the living, playing cards, sheltered
by six foot of earth, waiting on the turn
of a card. He saw unshakable comrades
hauling their friends through mud, not caring
for shells or snipers' bullets.
He saw hell, the end of things.
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