The Watchers

The sentry-man stood guard against the coming of the dawn,

a shadowed figure, cast by lantern light,

his body drawn

in silhouette, trenchcoated, capped,

the face a hollow blank

as he stood there, rifle steady, head above the curved grass bank.

 

Across the wasteland, we saw the masts of heavy ships at sea

tossed by water, barren, black, tormented torrents gleam

with flecks of light that burn through mist

and gather on the grass,

each man a ghost stood at his post,

watching night-time pass.

 

A poem inspired by a drawing of the trenches made by a soldier during WW1.

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