the thunder
[potential anxiety trigger warning]
There is thunder on the inside edges of my ribs.
There is thunder on the inside edges of my ribs.
I have been laid here in this place
With cold feet and trembling hands,
And staked to the earth
Like a wilted climbing rose in the middle of no man’s land.
Watching with eyes too tired to cry
And bones too weary to pull against the fetters,
And ears upon which fall grating even the sweetest of sounds.
There is thunder on the inside edges of my ribs
And stifling stone upon my throat.
The battle cries rise high into the air,
Standards are flown,
And spears clash upon shields
As the onslaught begins.
Rushing waves of boots and bayonets
Crash and meet, and separate, and crash again.
As the sightless dead slowly pile up around me
Like vines reclaiming ruins,
They block the sun and bury me in blackness.
I haven’t the strength to fight their weight
For a tiny glimpse of sky.
There is thunder on the inside edges of my ribs
And stifling stone upon my throat,
And earthquakes in my head that unsteady my stride.
Each day I wake from restless sleep
To pour sulpha into yesterday’s wounds,
And strap myself together with field bandages.
Each day, with my trembling hands,
I fasten the straps of imperfect armour,
Gather twine and stakes,
And begin with tremulous steps
My forced march to the battlefield.
Each day knowing I will lie helpless in the path of pitched battles
Fought on every front.
Steeling myself for the crushing noise of battle
And the pierce of the stake
And the too-tight binding against my aching wrists,
I make my way to no-man’s land
With thunder on the inside edges of my ribs.
This war is far from won.
© mjc 17 February 2017
