Thistle Alley

Rockets are flying, signal distress over no man’s land,

With hopes they are fading, splutter and die in a leaden sky,

The wounded resignation, the corpses on the wire,

a frozen tableaux flickers in the light

Flares are falling, chasing the shadows, nervous eyes, huddled in silence,

Hugging the earth, biding time

Motionless as spiders caught out on a killing floor,

muffled picks and shovels hold their still,

Praying for the darkness to return and hide the graves

they are opening,

the graves they are digging

A storm of fire and metal tears the wood asunder,

Shatters stumps of scorched and splintered trees,

Cowering in the mud within the roots, incessant thunder

Tormented shredded souls are torn apart

Deep beneath the surface the chalk yields to the chisels,

bloodied fingers tear the face away,

Hollowing the chambers along dark stygian tunnels,

hooded candles light the spectres way.

Dragons crawl the ridges towards

the spires on new horizons

Ploughing through the charnel pits and gore,

The spawn of death’s invention, a victory their burden

The promise stalls and wallows in the mire,

High above the stage, a chorus of dark angels,

a circus joins the theatre of war,

The props are in position, fuses primed and ready;

the wires pulse the signal

cue the mine exploding

The graves are opening

The dead they are rising, fear haunted faces, gaunt and grey,

Ghosts are gathering, the Danse Macabre, the hellish fray

Heaven above, Thistle Alley below

Whistles are blowing, the maxims** are waiting

To carve the flesh, shatter skulls and crush the bone

Guns stuttering relentless rake the lines,

The gas that whispers in the confines of the trenches

To choke the life of those who dare to hide

Heaven above, Thistle Alley below

Motionless survivors bloody on the killing floor,

praying for the darkness to return,

Praying for the darkness to return

and hide the graves of the living