No More Mud

Day Five,
“Should be over tomorrow,”
Says Sergeant Owen
The mud disagreed.

FLASH! BANG!
Screams of those
Who fell, dying.
How they writhed in the mud.

The sky poured rain.
The legs poured blood.
As did the chests and heads and arms.
All into the murky red-brown mud.

Quiet, night, darkness.
A lit match, a sharp shot, a bloody gurgle.
Owen’s body bent double,
With his head in the mud.

Bright morning, no birds.
Only loud, ground-shaking thumps,
Of vain artillery fire,
Making ripples in puddles of mud.

Air choked with smoke,
Trenches choked with dead,
Lungs choked with gas,
Mud choked with blood.

I vow, I swear, I promise,
Never in my life again,
To feel the cold wetness.
No more mud.

Those who say, but did not fight,
“Dulce et decorum est…”
Will never know how it was,
To lie bleeding, left for dead,

In the mud.