Colin F. Jones

THE PITS

Cadaverous faces once of callow youth,
Glare from the dark pits of the Earth’s black roof,
With hollow eyes disconsolate and dull,
With skin tight laden meagre round their skull.
Their claw like hands clutch overheated guns,
Behind the sandbagged structures of the bunds,
Wherein fly shells disfiguring the ground,
With high explosive screaming inward bound.
Sheer Hell is this that lights the humid night,
For the soldiers in this battle cannot fight.
For who can parry the intimidating shell
With all the fury of its fiery Hell:
They can but wait, hide and hope and pray,
That they live out the dehumanising day.