A Road To A Short War Poem by HEG George

A white hot finger points your way,
pushing air aside with each advancing message.
The renting of air with thunder clap abroad
makes too much noise, chattering like rattling lungs

Whispers to an unacknowledged Lord
bringing forward promised prayers.
The elastic of fear bringing Him ever closer

Listen, above the din, a whisper.
Just a faint whisper in the grass.
A tap on the shoulder, a poke in the chest

Cold, so very cold, yet burning hot.
With stench of faeces left too long,
the shadow of death falls over this life.
As yet unknown to its carrier

This cold, sucking, life-withdrawing colourless odour.
This all-pervading, all consuming watered soul,
so thinly veiled with blood and flesh.

This breathing vessel of emptied life.
With ice rink stare upon which skaters cut
figures to the reapers dance

This day, this very focal point,
where time no longer elapses, shall
feel the clod but not the shovel.
And keep a watch without relief