Poem by Douglas Pugh

the way of the warrior

it is only the dealing of death -

a cessation of life given to those that oppose,

whether by the winged head of an arrow

(no angel despite the feathered flight)

or by the brutal hack or thrust of steel

(multitudes of shape or form do not

clothe the chill bite, no art this,

just function)

and the battle is the summation of these

scant attention to the sun, cloud formations

above grassed valleys, the course of a hare

the absence of nature in this froth of chaos

all is aimed at a moment,

the release of joy from one side or the other

more tautly held than any bowstring

and launched, as victory is seen and clear,

it is followed by the grim pause

the silence of the arced flight,

moments where songs and poets

spill words of glory in their minds

it is a poor formation of relief,

guilt in surviving, anguished loss

of fellows, comrades-in-arms

and the halls, flowing with mead,

gushing with bravado

will hide one crucial fact

that the field where we buried humanity

in other people's bones is lost,

nor would we care

to find it's carrion picked pyre

drink, fellows, drink the horn dry,

stain your beards, your finery,

braid your memory until it is choked

into silence, a brooding forest

watching that day go by

in a muddy field

© Douglas Pugh, June 2011