day 18 of the Gulf War, February 1991
February, Sunday morning. Snow,
crisp on the hard ground and sun
filtering its way through the mist.
Turning off the Twinhoe road we
climbed the broken stile, inhaling
clean, cold air in the quilted quiet.
We followed twin tracks of man and dog,
criss-crossed by rabbits’ prints,
along the frosted, tree-edged path.
No birds, no wind, only the toll of the
church bell in Wellow, a mile away
and the creaking of compacting snow
under our boots like rolling tanks
crushing the bright, white ground.
Then you turned to me and spoke,
my very thoughts. “Out there, soldiers
are marking the sand with tracks,
criss-crossed by prints of desert rats”
“They’re wearing boots that will never
keep out the sand”. They too are muffled
in gloves and hoods – to keep out the horrors
of war, dazzled by the harsh reflected light
and thinking of home and snow and the
cold-comfort of a walk near Wellow.