Gedicht
Martin Figura
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As fathers stroll home from workthere is no birdsong and the November light
is all but gone.
Small boys run amok in avenues,
take cover behind privet hedges –
the smell of cordite, heavy in the air.
Over the traffic, the sound of battle:
grenades whistling overhead, the sporadic
rattle of toy guns from doorways.
At tea time, those whose turn it is
break cover, make a zigzagging run for it
shouting – ACHTUNG ACHTUNG.
They go down in a hail of bullets,
competing for the most dramatic death.
The pavement is so littered with Germans
the men must pick a way through
to reach their gates and take their sons
down paths into quiet houses.
© 2010, Martin Figura
From: Whistle
Publisher: Arrowhead Press, Darlington
Published with kind permission of the author.
From: Whistle
Publisher: Arrowhead Press, Darlington
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VICTOR
As fathers stroll home from workthere is no birdsong and the November light
is all but gone.
Small boys run amok in avenues,
take cover behind privet hedges –
the smell of cordite, heavy in the air.
Over the traffic, the sound of battle:
grenades whistling overhead, the sporadic
rattle of toy guns from doorways.
At tea time, those whose turn it is
break cover, make a zigzagging run for it
shouting – ACHTUNG ACHTUNG.
They go down in a hail of bullets,
competing for the most dramatic death.
The pavement is so littered with Germans
the men must pick a way through
to reach their gates and take their sons
down paths into quiet houses.
From: Whistle
Published with kind permission of the author.
VICTOR
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