Michael Swan
Giggling in No Man’s Land
At night
they slip giggling through No Man’s Land,
cut the wire, hurl their grenades,
and retreat unseen.
Angela,
the postman,
Mr Harris and the others,
and all of my lovers.
Twenty, thirty, forty years ago
a flash of temper, a foolishness,
a few betrayals.
And now here I am
dug into the freezing clay.
Is there no forgiveness?
Naturally, I fight back.
I haul up my twenty-five pounders.
I set the sights to 40 years.
Take that, postman!
I drop the range a fraction.
This is for you, Angela!
I lay down a creeping barrage
to pulverise my lovers,
Mr Harris,
and all of the others.
I pound their positions non-stop
for two weeks.
Certainly nothing can live
in this maelstrom of metal!
H-hour!
I fix my bayonet, skip up the ladder,
and advance whistling through No Man’s Land,
skirting the shell holes, kicking a football.
Up from their dugouts, quite silently,
rise the postman,
Mr Harris,
Angela and the others,
and all of my lovers.
Blinking a little
they man their machine guns.
they slip giggling through No Man’s Land,
cut the wire, hurl their grenades,
and retreat unseen.
Angela,
the postman,
Mr Harris and the others,
and all of my lovers.
Twenty, thirty, forty years ago
a flash of temper, a foolishness,
a few betrayals.
And now here I am
dug into the freezing clay.
Is there no forgiveness?
Naturally, I fight back.
I haul up my twenty-five pounders.
I set the sights to 40 years.
Take that, postman!
I drop the range a fraction.
This is for you, Angela!
I lay down a creeping barrage
to pulverise my lovers,
Mr Harris,
and all of the others.
I pound their positions non-stop
for two weeks.
Certainly nothing can live
in this maelstrom of metal!
H-hour!
I fix my bayonet, skip up the ladder,
and advance whistling through No Man’s Land,
skirting the shell holes, kicking a football.
Up from their dugouts, quite silently,
rise the postman,
Mr Harris,
Angela and the others,
and all of my lovers.
Blinking a little
they man their machine guns.
Page(s) 64-65
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