Poem-A-Day: Day 281

Some Novembers in Europe

There are vats of darkness
in the blood-stained muddy fields
trod with souls, with life,
shells and tracks of treads.
The ringing is astounding,
sounding more like muffled bursts
than shouts and ratatatats.
Smell the violence,
gunpowder and sulfur
mixed with blood and regret,
in vats of black bile,
some jelly-like consistency.
There’s snow covering the earth,
but the idea is laughable,
and hardly noticeable
buried under the glory
that has been shed
for those gleefully watching.