The faint diffuse of light
pushing its way from the sun
breaks the day
exposing the casualty of war.
On the battlefield
dead men lie in the dirt
made wet by their blood,
shaping the muck around them.
Their places of rest
fossilize as the sun beats down
and the clay stiffens
into their likeness.
Their hardened bodies,
drawn from the pitch,
leave the impression of death;
a keepsake for the killing ground.
Copyright by Barry Hart 2012