Poetry
History
by Geoff Cochrane
A silence in which
the snow seems autistic.
All are hungry;
many have been injured.
The luckiest huddle in ill-made bivouacs.
One poor wretch is shot
for having lost his cap.
You take up your pack and your rifle.
Trudge away from the camp.
Pass a great hangar abandoned by the Luftwaffe.
Streams have frozen solid
and puddles are inky panes.
You allow yourself a memory
of shooting civets in Galicia
before the war. You recall the pink champagne,
the chauffeur in his caramel livery.
