<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
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Artillery<\/strong><\/p>\n Unexplode the shell.<\/p>\n Let its shrapnel rehome, Let the gunner To the tubs. To the Filling Factory Listen Listen <\/p>\n Vanessa Gebbie<\/strong> is a novelist, short story writer, poet, teacher and editor. www.vanessagebbie.com <\/a><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Detail<\/strong><\/p>\n They called a spade, a spade; a grave, Too late, his flinch as the soil went in, the load They called a scare, a scare; a shock, a shock; \u00a0 \u00a0The Falklands Conflict, 1982<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Brian Johnstone<\/strong>\u2019s latest collection is Dry Stone Work<\/em> (Arc, 2009). His work has appeared throughout Scotland and in the UK, America and Europe. He is a co-founder of StAnza: Scotland\u2019s International Poetry Festival and was Festival Director from 2001-2010. His poems will appear on The Poetry Archive later in 2014.\u00a0 www.brianjohnstonepoet.co.uk<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Artillery Unexplode the shell. Let its shrapnel rehome, let it fly six thousand yards – line, no man\u2019s land, line – back into the hot muzzle of the eighteen pounder. Let the gunner heft it out, cold, swing, let go, rebuild the pile. Reload the limbers, assemble the gun team, summon the […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7433","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7433","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=7433"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7433\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":7455,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/7433\/revisions\/7455"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=7433"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=7433"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=7433"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nlet it fly six thousand yards
\n– line, no man\u2019s land, line –
\nback into the hot muzzle
\nof the eighteen pounder.<\/p>\n
\nheft it out, cold,
\nswing, let go, rebuild the pile.
\nReload the limbers,
\nassemble the gun team,
\nsummon the gypsy horses,
\nAlly Sloper\u2019s,
\nback to the base at Saigneville
\nDannes, or Outreau.<\/p>\n
\nLet the cranes weigh down
\nthe ship, the ship
\nsail coast to coast,
\nunburden itself
\nonto train, truck.<\/p>\n
\nat Woolwich, Chilwell or Banbury –<\/p>\n
\nto the Canary sing
\nwhile she unfills the shell,
\nher face bright
\nas the hair
\nthat escapes her scarf,
\nor the flash
\nthat accompanies
\na sudden release
\nof energy
\non the surface
\nof an adolescent star.<\/p>\n
\na grave; and duty unequivocal. His, to lead
\nthe burial detail out to what the islanders
\ncalled camp. Body bags done, they laid them out
\nas if for night, each sleeping sack a winding sheet.<\/p>\n
\nmisaimed, the heft of his spade mistimed,
\nrevealing the face of his mate below. Too late
\nto turn, too late to escape the stare that said,
\nI am not dead, even though he knew it was a lie.<\/p>\n
\nendurance indispensible. His, to yomp on
\nthrough the future, that face ever there: a friend
\nwho never said to him, Don\u2019t bury me, but says it
\nevery waking hour in all the trenches of his brain.<\/p>\n