Some Lost Pierre 1917

Was he some lost Pierre

that dead French soldier

lying there? Others too you

trudged past, back up to

the line, but he lies in that

awkward pose as if death

had taken him so swift he

had no time to fall in some

measured place, but lies

one arm up as if to shield,

the other arm beneath in

this blood muddied field.

You wonder who waits for

him at home. Mother, sister,

father, brother, wife or lover?

All maybe in some place by

some fire, drinking or eating,

musing on him, unaware he

lies dead in that awkward pose,

in this war damaged field, far

from warmth or love or life

and war's strife. Move on up

the line, the sergeant calls.

You move on in steady pace

with rifle and pack. You look

ahead warily where guns

sound; and not look back.