I’ve been here for a while now, <br />Can’t remember when I came. <br />The men? Dog tired, so am I, <br />In the featureless land that all seems same <br /> <br />Bombardment’s heavy. Shells, <br />Fall like spring rain, but <br />Water nothing, cultivating death, <br />Ploughing up land and men as one <br /> <br />Who have I lost? Smith, Johnson - both shells. <br />Mead, a bullet through the parapet <br />A slow, gargling, choking death <br />I remember that. One of many. <br /> <br />Who, Rasping bloodily for his mother, <br />Died terribly. But I’m lost too. I don’t know, <br />Why I’m here, What we fight for, <br />Blindfolded we walk towards death <br /> <br />The rifle is a comfort to me, its <br />Death-grey barrel glinting coldly in the winter sun <br />Five bullets, we were told, all for the “murdering Boche” <br />Lined up snugly inside, like men on parade <br /> <br />Death walks no-man’s land <br />Each day, gaily swinging his scythe, <br />Moving men from one <br />World to the next with graceful ease <br /> <br />It has not caught me in its wailing silver arc, <br />Its fountain of earth, a brief end to an even briefer <br />Life. But that doesn’t matter out here. I will wait for it, <br />In the land of mud where once-living beings sleep.<br /><br />Andrew McEwan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-shell-5/
