Poezja

(In memory of the 3 million
horses killed in War)
Taken from Cloven fields,
Where skylark and Grouse Linger.
Into the bowels of a troopship
No scent of Morning Dew, No Bird
song
Only sweat and urine,
And the distant sounds of war.
No light, no grass of home, only
the whip.
For he is bound for Flanders
field

His rider glorious in his
regalia, sword in hand
He was his master now, and the
horse’s salvation.
Kindness, a quiet word, an apple,
their bond complete
His last feed, bathed in a red
sun, which
Hovered above the morning mist
hiding yesterday’s sin,
For this is the place where death
is king and reason is lost

This day, where man throws
sacrifice to the gods,
Like so much sour grain, crushed,
and discarded,
To blow away into the winds of
time,
Recorded by nations into the
ledgers of loss,

For now it is time
The lines gather, then the slow
trot, their proud heads, restrained,
Their mouths foaming on the bit,
These beasts of burden knowing no
fear,
A site worthy of Valhalla

Their Trust, in man, galloping
where heroes dare not go
Onward, onward, they gallop,
Row on row into the fog, No grass
here,
Only mud, and wire,
Waiting for the days cull.

This place, Mans, ultimate
betrayal,
Onward, Onward, Nostril’s flared,
Eyes wide, steam rising from his Flanks,
Every muscle, straining for the
next stride

Then the Stumble, a moment’s
recovery,
Blood pours from his proud neck,
then the ground.
His head rose, a hand strokes his
brow, the last kindness.
A wavered shot ushers his life
away, like so many before,

No one will weep for you my War
horse,
No letter home,
They’ll be No mention in
dispatches, No Memorial
For you are just an animal,
Sacrificed on the altar of man,
left to rot in Flanders field

But for those precious minutes,
he was more than man,
This day, of all days, he kept
his bond, did not flinch,
Though death was all around,


Galloped blindly through the
death rattle of the guns, face on,
No retreat, Onward, Onward,
The magnificence of the horse, No
equal, never forget,

For it is the shame of a nation,
a sin of mankind,
To undo the hand of god
No glory here, only an empty cup
left on the altar of insanity.

Taken From Cloven Fields,
Where the Skylark and Grouse
Linger
For I will weep for you,
My noble friend,
My War Horse, You Magnificent
Beast