The Charge

Hard back

pages, stained with time and
an aged aroma.

1915. A battle is painted.
Acid slashing,
spitting.

Direct eyes leap from a tiny cliff
onto young bodies. Bloodied. Abandoned.

Somewhere, some mothers stand as sharp
as shrapnel,
bullets piercing their wombs,
their children’s supple homes.

Trembling hands
find a gun
and
a buddy. A soldier. A boy.
Death has no time in
these fields. He is hurried.

Frontal attacks sweep
unprotected spots. Blurring instinct.
Blinding the Earth with a scarlet bath.

Burying dirt with
young boys,
men.

1915. Hard back pages, stained with
memory and
the scent of suffering.

And this….
just the beginning.

*About The Charge by W. Douglas Newton.