Float

A poem about a butterfly in the trenches. For more of my writing, go to andrewhenleywriting.wordpress.com

A butterfly invades the scene,

its wings waft through a slurry of

smoke and urine, hope and despair, letters from wives and lives rotting in the mud.

The wings are tinged with gangrenous grey,

and furious red eyes that block out the sun

for the few who can still see it.

 

The ashen blue chalk body of the butterfly

lands in the trenches circa

the worst war in human history, but then

that could be so many.

Delicate soft soled feet coldly kiss the helmet of

a man who

will return home

in a body bag as a coffin flag.

 

After the rhythmic marching drum of machine gun fire,

one of them floats away.