April 1865: Message from Clover Hill

In a grave for the living, rationing my breath
I guard comrades fighting within themselves
to stay in the tiny sliver of death
we call sleep. In wartime, sleeping
is close to, yet as far from living
as it’s possible to be.

April’s sun lazes over the horizon,
it’s anaemic light revealing life midst
the shadowy parade of miniature pyramids.
Men emerge bleary and fearful from all angles,
desperate to shake off their fractured nightmares.
Even so, the sounds of legs plunging into pantaloons
and arms rushing into jackets make me wonder
if they relish these days of wanton carnage.

Though battered, cynical and too weary even for thoughts of mutiny,
our interception of General Lee, running south
to Johnston’s ninety thousand Army of Tennessee
gives rise to dreams of cease-fire. Peace.

As usual, Sergeant Pawkin bullies hope into retreat
bellowing, “Fall in for roll call men.”
Not, ‘march in;’ not even ‘walk in’ or ‘run’,
The call is to “Fall in”.
We’ve been falling since 1861.

The mood of each man is clear
from the monosyllabic, “Here”
he returns from the ranks.
On this day, it feels as if each soldier
is in lament for half a million souls; ’til
into our camp gallops
a messenger from Clover Hill.
Hair flowing, sweat flying,
bandages coloured dirt and crimson,
he roars his message to all who will listen,
“Lee has surrendered! The war is done!”

Whoa! Now there’s a trooper, breaking rank,
hollering right back. What’s he sayin?
“Hey buddy, tha’s jus’ great”
“but where you bin? Seems to me you’re four years late!”