How weary the clinking,
the clanking,
of metal weapons
banging helmets,
the shuffle of boots
on crusted snow,
shifting of packs
on battle-sore bones;
the deepness of silence
loud in our ears.
A grunt, a groan,
a sigh, a moan;
traversing a hill,
then down to the road.
Snowflakes are soundless
except in our minds,
swirling in hollows
and sleepless red eyes.
Marching to respite,
metallic notes surround.
Follow the road to R&R,
five days in the sunlight,
then back to the war.
By: John Kent