Ghosts of the Battlefield
Listless touches
graze me
as I pass
over the wooden bridge,
clouds dancing
before a three-quarter moon,
about me
misty faces form
and dissipate
in the blink of an eye.
The musty, briny scent
of the marsh
hangs on the air
like a heart spoken
broken promise,
tattered flags
wave in the mist
on this deathly still night.
As I enter
the uneven field,
images
of bayonet strikes
and muzzle blasts
float before my eyes,
I can almost hear
the cannon fire,
smell the acidic smoke,
feel the concussive blast
rattle through my body.
Swirls of blue and grey
pass in the fog
as I skim
the edge of the woods,
off in the darkness,
on a hill,
with a rusting wrought iron gate
crosses are silhouetted
on the night’s canvas.
Copyright © Mark Matthews | Year Posted 2008
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