Birds of the Western Front
Your mess-tin cover's lost. Kestrels hover
above the shelling. They don't turn a feather
when hunting-ground explodes in yellow earth,
flickering star-shells
and flares from the Revelation of St John.
You look away
from artillery lobbing roar and suck and snap
against one corner of a thicket
to the partridge of the war zone
making its nest in shattered clods. History floods into subsoil to be blown apart. You cling
to the hard dry stars of observation.
How you survive. They were all at it:
Orchids of the Crimea
nature notes from the trench
leaving everything unsaid - hell's cauldron
with souls pushed in, demons stoking flames beneath - for the pink-flecked wings of a chaffinch flashed like mediaeval glass.
You replace gangrene and gas mask
with a dream of alchemy: language of the birds translating human earth to abstract and divine. While machine-gun
tracery gutted that stricken wood you watched the chaffinch flutter to and fro through splintered branches, breaking buds and never a green bough left. Hundreds lay in there wounded. If any, you say, spotted one bird they may have wondered why a thing with wings would stay in such a place.
She must have, sure, had chicks
she was too terrified to feed, too loyal to desert.
Like roots clutching at air you stick to the lark singing fit to burst at dawn
sounding insincere above the burning bush: plough-land
latticed like folds of brain
with shell-ravines where nothing stirs but black rats, jittery sentries and the lice sliding across your faces every night. Where every elixir's gone wrong
you hold to what you know.
A little nature study. A solitary magpie blue and white spearing a strand of willow.
One for sorrow. One for Babylon,
Ninevah and Northern France,
for mice and desolation, the burgeonin
Your mess-tin cover's lost. Kestrels hover
above the shelling. They don't turn a feather
when hunting-ground explodes in yellow earth,
flickering star-shells
and flares from the Revelation of St John.
You look away
from artillery lobbing roar and suck and snap
against one corner of a thicket
to the partridge of the war zone
making its nest in shattered clods. History floods into subsoil to be blown apart. You cling
to the hard dry stars of observation.
How you survive. They were all at it:
Orchids of the Crimea
nature notes from the trench
leaving everything unsaid - hell's cauldron
with souls pushed in, demons stoking flames beneath - for the pink-flecked wings of a chaffinch flashed like mediaeval glass.
You replace gangrene and gas mask
with a dream of alchemy: language of the birds translating human earth to abstract and divine. While machine-gun
tracery gutted that stricken wood you watched the chaffinch flutter to and fro through splintered branches, breaking buds and never a green bough left. Hundreds lay in there wounded. If any, you say, spotted one bird they may have wondered why a thing with wings would stay in such a place.
She must have, sure, had chicks
she was too terrified to feed, too loyal to desert.
Like roots clutching at air you stick to the lark singing fit to burst at dawn
sounding insincere above the burning bush: plough-land
latticed like folds of brain
with shell-ravines where nothing stirs but black rats, jittery sentries and the lice sliding across your faces every night. Where every elixir's gone wrong
you hold to what you know.
A little nature study. A solitary magpie blue and white spearing a strand of willow.
One for sorrow. One for Babylon,
Ninevah and Northern France,
for mice and desolation, the burgeonin
( Ruth Padel )
www.QuoteSweet.com