Please Tell Me It’s Not Time

The rain has ceded, hoisted away by a frigid wind

In its wake, the wool clothing I wear swells with the wet it now carries.

Taking the sleeve of my soaked tunic, I wipe sloppily across my eyes

And squeeze off a blink, then another

Until my sight, no longer muted, howls into the landscape of grey stench.

Departed are the tall trees from earlier, replaced by craters carved into the ground

Lots of craters, too many craters

Spilling mates from their bowels, mixed with dirty water

Stagnant they lay in an awful condition.

My hobnail boots sink in the muck as I stumble getting around their bodies

Without direction, I’m lost

Fear of being alone settles across my mind like a tule fog

And, my ears continue to toll a nothingness

“Where am I?”

“Wake up, you daydreaming fool,” shouts the lieutenant.

“Are you the only soldier not to hear the trench whistle?

You’re holding up our platoon from charging!

Now, get your arse up the ladder and over the parapet

Or, you’ll be shot on the spot for cowardice in battle

That’s an order!

Hell, I may bloody well shoot you myself.

Go, Go, Go!”

©2023 Bill Canepa