Some Lost Pierre 1917 Poem by Terry Collett

Was he some lost Pierre
that dead French soldier
lying there? Others too you

trudged past, back up to
the line, but he lies in that
awkward pose as if death

had taken him so swift he
had no time to fall in some
measured place, but lies

one arm up as if to shield,
the other arm beneath in
this blood muddied field.

You wonder who waits for
him at home. Mother, sister,
father, brother, wife or lover?

All maybe in some place by
some fire, drinking or eating,
musing on him, unaware he

lies dead in that awkward pose,
in this war damaged field, far
from warmth or love or life

and war's strife. Move on up
the line, the sergeant calls.
You move on in steady pace

with rifle and pack. You look
ahead warily where guns
sound; and not look back.