by Michael Brett
Battles and concentration camps are like Impressionist paintings:|
Up close-chaotic, the language of fractured brushwork
Working in different directions and elements:
Fear, mud, noise and smell;
Yet, from the air, as the art lover, drone or archaeologist sees it:
Geometric, orderly; smooth arrivals and departures of aircraft
And trains. In France and Belgium, you can still see
The diagonal lines of First World War wire
Funnel spidering into killing zones;
The squares and lines of camps.
In the middle of everything, Morse still bleeped
Of the arrival of tins of rice pudding; letters,
News of John's wife having a baby.
Between fresh graves, chocolate and cigarettes arrived
And men ate stew.
Copyright © 2013 - Michael Brett
Published: 10/3/13 · Author's Page · Next Poem