It was said that all things must pass: the big wheels turning, turning over the drought-lands, the down-and-out lands cattle skeletons ploughed in like rotted ships fence-posts - frayed and far-fetched zippers - dragging lines of wind-sawn wire – dun and drear the fierce fires rolling, roiling wanton flames - the lunge and buck, the rear and roar of raging wave-forms Foam of heat, cloying, dumping skimming and spitting – a race of hate. Grimmest grandeur. the weary warriors’ fighting, toiling yellow uniforms drab with dirt Every home for winning, losing – fought by hearts for free. A thousand small and savage Thermopylaes faces bled in forge-furnace sepia – done in, done up, dull as dust. The fulsome clouds spewing, spoiling drowning in fallen sky – nights that suffocate hessian-brown and hard-inhaling. The hingeless flap of funereal flotsam – tree pieces, possum fur and the torn-out holes of sand-blasted hearts. Wrung and wretched raining But what about memory? Seared in, branded. Singed skin and sewn-on stories. The stink still there in winter’s friendlier fires – a chimney’s tale of facts, of fear, of friends, of flocks and fortunes. “Lest we forget” this fiendish inferno. A nation’s collectors Philatelists of fire.
Photo courtesy of Mr Worms who was one of the warriors
Written for Brendan’s Earthweal prompt “big wheels turning”