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Foot Patrol

In a swift second of acknowledgment
His eyes soared
vertically chasing
Fizzing metal,
Viewing a sky that
slowly rolled
Over him
And a sun that
shone for Satan
In a wilderness of
spite.
Heat and air
merged to
Sulphurous
proportions, infused
With alloys of war
and hate that
Boiled by
waterless caverns of
Crimson
sadness,
Of lemon
daydreams.
Above a lone cloud
slid,
Soaring to
excess:
To grasp and hold
it,
To cradle a
hope;
He blinked
Motionless;
Eyes silently
still.
He fell where he
stood;
Head in his
footprint,
As a man,
As a grain of
sand,
As an important
insignificance.
Restless Khyber
wind circled
With a belligerent
edge that
Cracked and spat
and blew,
Drifting dunes of
khaki
Westwards;
As hostile sand
disguised
A sign of
being,
His mark of
living,
Our print of
shame,
This empire of
dust.
By Stephen Hollaway
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