This Slide of Men

Wide of the fairy trail

Where instinct had once been

In retreat and

Where trenches had

Been laid;

Where too the young

Women would pause to weep.

Is the ground

On which too many dusty men

Had been wasted.

They have each received

The knock of the gun,

Or the slashing wound.

They are all posthaste dead,

They are the kindlings

For the pyre of woe remnant,

Of this version of Hell.

A well preferred death,

Over discomfort and distress.

They were not well ordered.

But were expended.

Their souls expelled.

And their officers expunged,

These scenes from memory.

So they could see through

To their final future,

And be seen fit.

(c) 2018 Christopher Thompson.