GUNFIRE (m2a2)
The
boisterous cannon burps its arrogant rounds,
From
insecure base where it leaps upon the ground.
With
trails spread wide and spades resisting while,
They
hold in mud that is black and foul and vile.
The
“crack” is piercing; the covered lobe is sore,
The
backward pressure elates the thrill of war,
While like a vibrant horse, rearing in the shafts,
The
gunners around the recoil work their crafts.
Into
smoking breach the rounds are driven home,
Bubbles leveled! Ready! Fire, load!
Clothed in cordite, sweat and jungle green,
The
servants of the gun work as a team.
And
when the shooting stops the silent din,
Resonates through the cordite growing thin.
© 08
March 07 Colin F Jones
Webmaster: Thurman P. Woodfork
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