Written by  Mike Skele


On the TGV from Paris to Frankfurt


I hear their blood screaming,

countless voices, long neglected

but known and loved or despised

by all who lay beside them,

comrades in anguish, and yet,

even they were unaware that

their blood refreshed the broken

chemistry of those who fell before

by sword or cannon, rifle or mace.

Here a man who refused to bow,

there a woman who could but bow,

a knight-fall, a beheading, a bludgeoned

innocent or a vile serpent of a man,

all stirring the same soil, contributing

their carbon, nitrogen, and oxygen

to the sweet, sweet plums and peaches.

The train shrieks across field and drumlin,

past hillocks, tussocks, and cassocks

shorn of their clerics, no longer prayed for,

candles long since extinguished, forgotten.

Hurry up, no time to tarry, useless anyway.

And suddenly, on a wooded hill,

a castle turret still ravaged by time,

above a shallow stream

waiting for its lifeblood

to be enriched



Text © Mike Skele



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By Mike Skele