Last salute

Last salute

The geese had announced his motorcycle;

He held a photo album in his hand;

Blue helmets, armoured cars, burnt grass, dirt roads;

Twice they’d spat in death’s eye:

A bullet through his pack -

From a train-carriage door;

A mortar he heard hit

The ground – lucky - no blast.

They found bits of hacked bodies and raped girls,

Discarded, denuded of dignity,

No resurrecting dew to revive them.

He and the captain, seasoned warriors,

Tested, bound by a knot of comradeship,

Gathered the bits up like twigs for a fire;

The pale captain soft-spoke:

‘We’ll have a smoke – the flies’;

There was no rightful thing

To speak, just smoke the stink

The angels of death left.

No one raised a cry over the butchered;

Nor did heaven drip down reviving dew.

Nor did angels of peace weep bitterly.

They returned from the Congo sound of limb;

But earth-stopped mouths gaped dead on their pillows;

The hacked limbs haunted, horrified their sleep;

The sarge kept a panga

On his bedside locker,

The captain a hurley,

Beside him on the floor.

Their wives knew fear sickens.

There was no memorial of last words;

They each had a glass of Tullamore Dew;

While the geese grazed the grass, they saluted.