Cheerful rebel

Cheerful and playfully arrogant,
done up in his boots and his good felt hat,
the slanting leaves that shared his accent
in the wood were smiling like sharpened axes
as he made past the barn and the sheepfold,
his weapon slung over his shoulder
as if he was heading to work in the field,
as per usual, though he was heading for the war.

Yet May fell within weeks and September
went AWOL; now he can’t for the life
of him, as he peers in his bag, remember
the ferns that waved him off: one loaf
of bread is left, and the devious enemy
is taking pot shots from ridges in the hills,
so he can't see their faces—if they have them.
Also, his boots pinch and his hat has holes.

So he crawls on his belly, he's flat on his face
on a slope of crumbling sand and mud
as the clattering hoof-beats of riders race
past above him on a raised dirt road,
and he’s holding his arms in a pincer
about his head, as a child, for camouflage;
he peeks up the mud-bank, where the air
and earth split his vision, half-and-half.

The sky still seems hopeful—if empty—
though the way out leads through a marsh.
He rubs at his side where the hardy
shoots of marram grass dug harshly
into his ribs, and he thinks—on rolling over,
once the riders are out of range—
"I would have laughed when I was younger:
now I just shake and cringe."

A ravenous wolf troop will sweep
through the countryside, ravaging hedge
and crop. Will the copse get the chop
along with the tree of knowledge
of good and evil? To use for another spear
shaft? To lighten a while the dismal mood
around that evening's pitiful campfire?
To ruin the gloom with the surplus firewood?

(Dawlish, 2001)