Sunset

It is a cold day – half past three I think,

the sun is setting in a wintry sky, and

I try to grasp a cigarette between

my shaking fingers – take from its

warmth in this foreign land.

We sit -

huddled together in a mud

filled ditch, the others and I -

watching the blood red of a dying orb

spread across this field of war – smell

the decaying limbs, as we suck on the

unfiltered end of a soothing stick.

Silence fills the air...

Silence that is, as guns cease to fire,

and men halt their screams.

I sigh -

think of the last time I saw your

face – my body slumped in your embrace,

my face hidden from the truth in your eyes.

I tremble -

as the smoke smarts my tired mind, and

the tar blackens my weary lungs.

Then -

my gaze follows the spiritual hand painting

the grey laden sky -

vermilion;

homage to the rotting dead- an elegy to the

souls of men -

sons’ like me,

accidents of war -

casualties of other men’s musings.

Like ghosts -

the moon creeps in, chasing away the glorious

effigy of its counterpart, dressing the ground

with lacy shadows – homage to the noble features

of they that lay rigid.

I inhale -

for all I am worth, the last sweet dregs of tobacco.

I douse -

slump my weary body

into the cloisters of darkness.