by Michael Brett

We arrived by truck: just kids staring out of a canvas cave
At the road behind. Now-through time's stethoscope-
I can hear the TV advert jingles being sung,
The snapping of rifle bolts, like old typewriter keys,
And the sea splashing behind the targets and red flags.

In the sea mist you could see the bullets in flight, in waves,
Like an invisible comb combing an invisible cat,
Smell the hot sperm smell of cordite and-strangest of all-
Have an infinite sense of possibility, of medals by the truckload,

Copyright © 2010 - Michael Brett
Published: 8/26/10   ·  Author's Page   ·  Next Poem