Читать книгу Catastrophic - Humphrey Hartney - Страница 8

Somewhere out there

Is a command centre

And its field marshal.

He gathers his maps

Knowing what he knows

of less flammable worlds

than this.

See, things have changed since

he last put on these spurs.

He remembers what he hopes to remember

As other generals, commanders, majors, staffers

Gather about him.

Then, further afield

In places he doesn’t know and can’t see

The armies of the front

The armies of the unpaid

Powered by nothing but tea

Driven by the best of intentions

The greatest army

our country has ever seen

– the yous and mes

Our fellow citizens.

As I write this

On the morning of the tenth of November

In the year of our miserable, rainless lord

Two thousand and nineteen

They're having breakfast.

Heavy boots under the table

Sipping tea, coffee

Cloaked in bright yellow pants, heavy calicos

Blue tops – faking cool

And wool

to stop the cinders biting

too cruelly.

They may contemplate

What their fingers hold –

Their last cup handle

Their last piece of toast.

Some of them may never come home

and they know this.

They chew on in silence.

They hoist onto their shoulders their bright yellow coats in that

Messy, confusing moment of

Partly-spoken departure where

Language and embraces, eye contact and words

barely work

And then,

just like that

they are gone.