Yes, I’m Sure It Is Vermillion …
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I had spent at least an hour in this hot mustard, salad-sun
While two small flies made circles around my sweaty head
The August corn waving tall and tidy, a yellow sea, swollen
When I found the end of a pencil and started to scribble
..
I lifted my arm to give blood to my shoulder throbbing
Staring at the sticky mess both khaki, crimson and the sun
Woken from a tortured dream, there flying a lost bird sightless
Braver than a pitman’s pony, it sang one note of surprising joy
..
Sound, a silent witness dressed in uniform still buttoned to the neck
The dazed expression of my dead friend who lay beside me quietly
I dreamed of thee dear Jenny as we lay, your left breast in my hand
That had been a better day when I lay inside you, I did not wear a glove
..
This paper in my closed hand is blotted now with a trail of palest red
Cold the breeze that made me shiver, whispers this soldier is not dead
In the foggy, bloody haze, a picture forming of colour, of fire and light
Beyond the battle-scarred high-ground, smeared in shit-brown sienna
..
Beyond these moments where I have lain with only dead people
For these past two hours, I open a box of paints, I select a palette
The stench of mud drying, nauseating & honest, the night air falling
Upon this brow, it says I cannot hope to see the morning or the tide turn
..
And Jenny in my thoughts, soft and warm, her flesh like life, not death
Here hidden in this cancer of man’s regret I daub the crimson patina
Upon this tunic, it lays heavy now a sodden wretch, thus portrait cold
Yes, I’m sure it is vermillion – that colour no nearer orange than to red
writtenbyedenbray21.07.2018
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edenbray’s #note: It is the Anniversary this year of the end of the 14-18 War. The most hellish War known to modern man. I wanted to write something you could step inside & experience. I have no real idea, a few of us might have some slight idea of what dying in the trenches in that God-awful war was like. This is how I chose to visit that dreadful war in 1918. Using a few words to paint a picture and kind of leave some artist marks where the picture might go. This poor boy drifting slowly into eternity’s light as the vermillion ebbs from his body. Friendless and alone among the dead and dying, he remembers some sweet moments of his life and scribbles them on a scrap of bloodstained paper with the butt of a pencil he finds in his khaki, tunic breast-pocket. He remembers the intimacy of making love to his darling Jenny and the pleasure he had in selecting colours from his paint box to paint a picture. We should always remember the best moments of our lives they may be the only consolation we have on our own deathbeds. Goodnight sweet boy with your vermillion rosy cheeks I can see you in my mind’s eye.
We remember your life and the real death of so many. Your sad, sad demise.
written by the author 21/24-07-18
edenbray - the poet - SITE A 