A flash of gunfire, smoke and dirt,
stinking trenches, creeping Turks,
cannons blazing, belching smoke,
in clouds of dust we cough and choke.
Screams of injured echo around,
the clash of swords and guns rebound,
tears pour on the dead as rain,
washing bloated corpses on the plain.
The enemy is weak, they say,
easily beaten, perhaps a day,
commanders sent us here to fight,
but we just see the death and blight.
Trenches filled with brackish soil,
in waterlogged ground we sweat, we toil
frozen winter takes our limbs,
cruel sun our eyesight dims.
We’re cannon fodder, nothing more,
so of glories, officers boast and bore
torrential rain and burning sun,
conscript and volunteers, we are done.
© Anne Waring 2015
Langley Writers
