Under A Heavy Artillery Sky

Wishes and last blown kisses
sent desperately to wives, sweethearts
and the like…
are fighting the smoky,
burning atmosphere
above the Battlefield
with lost hope and unanswered prayers.
Insanity; is cheating Death,
but only momentarily,
whilst constantly still losing ground.
There is a Giant of a man,
not more than 20ft away,
with an arm
and part of his shoulder missing,
standing upright in the open,
with his back to the Enemy,
and crying like a lost toddler
for the warmth and safety of his mammy.
I’ve pissed myself,
and I’m far too frightened to feel shame,
or anything else for that matter,
that isn’t connected rigidly to Terror.
The high-pitched whiiiiiisssstttllliinnggg,
followed by the ear-popping
silent wARp and SuctioN
is making my soul dislodge
from its rattling fixings…
and the Sun peeking pathetically
through the chaos over to east
is nothing but a no good, bastard liar.

Paul Tristram is a widely published Welsh writer, who’s currently up to his elbows in Magic, and long may it remain this way. Read other articles by Paul, or visit Paul's website.