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Evening At Hartmannswillerkopf

Evening At Hartmannswillerkopf

A cemetery criss crosses white
on a green slope with no names.
I imagine from the adjacent peak
peeps the glint of a metal helmet
in the shock of a tree where fertively
eyes fixate the field; thread the foliage.
How can green transmute into red?
They held out until nineteen nineteen
planked in filthy ruts,
belching bullets, damp as leeches
snow bitter in their boots.
Twenty five thousand slain.
Now the mountain’s womb a crypt
where death’s stone solemnity stands
in a spectre that saturates the air
with an analgesic vibrancy
and touches the space in a heart;
as man murders its own kind.
Outside the sun’s halloween face
shimmers proud, apricot in a shroud
while a wiry submarine form
slithers its silver missiles.

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