Waiting for the Whistle
by Jemma Leech
By early dawn, the lightening sky is gold
And winter’s breath blows chill into my hands.
Ungloved, the fingertips are all but frozen,
Clasped tight around the muzzle of my gun.
The mud is frozen solid, ruts like mountains,
Ice crystals form a blanket on my bed.
It makes me smile, to call that thing a bed,
A bag of moldy straw, more black than gold,
With lumps as sharp as tops of Alpine mountains,
And lice the size of fists, like boxers’ hands.
I sleep, therefore, upright; my loving gun
Becomes my pillow, cheek to barrel frozen.
Remember, how we thrilled to see the frozen
Landscape, as we tumbled out of bed?
We fetched our boots, and father brought his shotgun,
And we waded out through white, through sunrise gold.
The snowballs stung our faces and our chilled hands,
Which soon were warmed by chocolate mallow mountains.
They’re not so fun, these snow-capped barbed wire mountains
Of young men’s bodies, blood now stilled and frozen.
Their lifeline rifles silent in their blue hands,
And no-man’s-land their final feather bed,
The victory they died for naught but fool’s gold,
And their funeral anthem sung by Vickers gun.
We live here side by side, and gun by polished gun,
From English lanes, Welsh hills and Scottish mountains,
Fighting for far countries’ freedom more than gold,
For freedom constitutionally frozen.
Their fields and woods and hedgerows are our death bed,
Our final resting place. Then God’s own hands
Will lift us up to heaven, if the Devil’s hands
Don’t drag us down below at pointed gun.
We’re killers all, each one has made his own bed,
And will lie there, as we join the barbed wire mountains.
The ticking of my watch will soon stop, frozen,
As the ice forms crystals smothering its gold.
My pillow-gun in hand, I’ll climb this mountain,
And over no-man’s manly corpses frozen,
Till the bed of my goodbye is sunrise gold.
And winter’s breath blows chill into my hands.
Ungloved, the fingertips are all but frozen,
Clasped tight around the muzzle of my gun.
The mud is frozen solid, ruts like mountains,
Ice crystals form a blanket on my bed.
It makes me smile, to call that thing a bed,
A bag of moldy straw, more black than gold,
With lumps as sharp as tops of Alpine mountains,
And lice the size of fists, like boxers’ hands.
I sleep, therefore, upright; my loving gun
Becomes my pillow, cheek to barrel frozen.
Remember, how we thrilled to see the frozen
Landscape, as we tumbled out of bed?
We fetched our boots, and father brought his shotgun,
And we waded out through white, through sunrise gold.
The snowballs stung our faces and our chilled hands,
Which soon were warmed by chocolate mallow mountains.
They’re not so fun, these snow-capped barbed wire mountains
Of young men’s bodies, blood now stilled and frozen.
Their lifeline rifles silent in their blue hands,
And no-man’s-land their final feather bed,
The victory they died for naught but fool’s gold,
And their funeral anthem sung by Vickers gun.
We live here side by side, and gun by polished gun,
From English lanes, Welsh hills and Scottish mountains,
Fighting for far countries’ freedom more than gold,
For freedom constitutionally frozen.
Their fields and woods and hedgerows are our death bed,
Our final resting place. Then God’s own hands
Will lift us up to heaven, if the Devil’s hands
Don’t drag us down below at pointed gun.
We’re killers all, each one has made his own bed,
And will lie there, as we join the barbed wire mountains.
The ticking of my watch will soon stop, frozen,
As the ice forms crystals smothering its gold.
My pillow-gun in hand, I’ll climb this mountain,
And over no-man’s manly corpses frozen,
Till the bed of my goodbye is sunrise gold.
Jemma Leech is a silent poet with a loud voice. She is a British/Texan poet and essayist who lives in Houston. While she speaks from the perspective of someone with cerebral palsy and a wheelchair user, she also celebrates nature, reflects on history, and observes human intimacy. Her work has appeared in the Gulf Coast Literary Journal, the Houston Chronicle, The Times, and on ABC News. She has given readings through Inprint, Houston Public Library, and Public Poetry Houston.