Over the top

Midnight,

yet the sky is white

hot with tracers and

shell bursts through the night.

We shiver, we cower

in a long dirt bower

as the after burn sears

our brains and the noise

rattles our bones

to stokes our fears.

We are cold.

We are hungry.

The King’s shilling

has no value here.

We crouch on duckboards,

knee deep in the slurry

and the mire,

that sucks constantly

at our sodden boots.

Below us, a poisoned

quagmire, stinking

with effluent; and above,

a more lethal concoction,

A world of screaming metal

and molten lead.

A scream.

A curse.

Sudden, the mud and earth

rise beneath our feet

as the wooden rampart

shatter and falls,

we find our feet again and

listen to the wounded calls

for help, for mother, for God.

Just as suddenly, the noise abates,

into a cold black silence....

....and then the whistle.

that dreaded whistle blows, repeated and repeated

along the dark lines

relayed into the blackness.

The signal of what is soon to come.

The metallic clink as

the bayonets are turned

onto cold iron, and our

hearts are turned to ice.

And then we are up

and over the top.....

We are over.

Steve Wheeler © 8 November, 2021

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