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Bayonets
The grey sky
outside seems oddly comforting today.
My fire escape cuts a sharp, blackened
silhouette against its
iron-like visage, worthy
of any modern art wannabe
I’m listening to Ken Burns
wax lyrical about the horrors
of the Civil War.
The bayonet charge ended with
that war, apparently.
A convention of death rendered obsolete
I wonder what it must have felt like,
shaking, staring at the savage tip
of the steel, ready to plunge.
Was it dull and grey like this sky?
Or as sharp and piercing
as the Sun?
They were just boys
Green tea, slippers and
a cigarette are
my comrades in arms today
And we shall revive the
bayonet charge into unknown
Tomorrow, unheeded and silent as the clouds.
Copyright ©
Matthew Howels
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