Sitting in a mud-soaked trench
he writes a letter, every word a wrench
As the bombs explode close by
and bullets shoot through the sky
He blocks the sounds of screams
writing his letter to Louise
His sweetheart for these past few years
his last memory was of her tears
He tells her all is well
omitting the very real hell
Of the broken, the bloodied and the torn
and those that wished they’d never been born
A young recruit looks over his trench
as a bullet takes him clean through his head
Falling still with eyes open wide
the horror of which no man can hide
He carries on writing as mud spatters down
trying to block out the awful sounds
For it will be his time to go over soon
in a war where everyone does lose
And then he’s over, his letter handed away
charging and screaming his battle-rage
As all fall around him dead or hurt
and all goes black in this field of no birds
Published by
Darren Greenidge
I'm a thinker, listener, a "question's pretty much everything" type of person. A seeker of knowledge, always restless, yet seeks the calm in life.
I love writing in all forms and am in the process of completing a number of ongoing projects. I love the craft of writing and the possibilities it holds. A magic carpet through the mind. I love pretty much all creative arts, music, film and theatre the leading ones.
Born in Hertfordshire in England, my family Irish, Welsh and English, I currently reside in Edinburgh, in Scotland. I'm drawn to coastal and mountain regions where I like to go to think and draw inspiration from. Ireland is a place that's dear to me, and I try to get back to see family and friends as much as possible.
My interests are wide and broad, too many to mention here, but history, archaeology, criminology, music and film are just some of those things I love.
I hope you enjoy my ramblings on here as that's what they are really. I'll let my fingers do the ''talking...''
View all posts by Darren Greenidge
Caliburnus Rises 
The imagery and sentiments of the poem sit well, and are a good modern write on WW1 (or any trench warfare).
Is the first line meant to be mud-soaked?
Thanks for sharing.
Bless you and thank-you for that. I met an old soldier when I was at school who was at the Somme so every poem I do about WWI is in honour of him. He was but a child, 15 I think, when he signed up and survived the horrors of that battle. I remember him till this day, well over twenty years later.