Last Patrol Poem by James Walter Orr

Gray-green rimmed the hill.
Eternal dark's chill
Approach of the night,
Glazed and dimmed my sight.
Rose lay on light green,
Of the somber scene,
Like the pale pink meat,
Still too green to eat,
On a melon’s rind.
We left it behind.

Darkness then pooled there.
The pathway lay where?
A bat’s wings fluttered;
The last man muttered,
As his ankle turned,
When the path, he spurned.
A rock rolled down-slope,
Like my last faint hope.
The whisper of breath,
Came ragged as death.

I could smell the pall
Of dust over all,
And my men’s sour sweat
Kept each dark shirt wet.
The smell of old smokes,
As stale as our jokes;
About as funny
As ants in honey.
A soft breath was gasped,
As a shoe-sole rasped.

The gasp was cut off
With a muffled cough,
As feet scuffed the dust
And the sergeant cussed.
Like flour, when sifted,
The surface drifted
And flowed gently down.
A company frown
Creased sweaty faces
That held no graces.

Climbing the next dune,
The least hint of moon
Lighted silhouette
Seemed to pirouette;
The world burned and seared,
As it disappeared.
Momentarily,
But indelibly,
I saw our own meat
Fly: bloody and sweet.