Christmas 1914

Dark, uncracking silence. And for the dead
lying hammered to the ground
between the lines, it was peaceful.
A quiet chill oasis found
in a dry dark desert tinged with red.
For the living, still, it was peaceful.

It was cold. The bulleted bodies were cold
between the lines. But on either side
red blood still flowed, we are told with pride,
through the war-dressed bodies of both young and old.

The power of silence still held strong
after the shrieking dissonant song
of the guns that up to the edge of the night
had spluttered forth their white
blood-streaked poison.

Through long, lone, aching
hours the night had grown
numb and cramped. Only the waking
at dawn made sleep a thing
to be clung to, but embraced without passion.

Dawn came, and from black the sky melted to grey
as the winter sun rose, chilled, to another day.
On either side of the lines the men awoke,
paralysed with fear. Some spoke,
their brittle voices croaking fearful laughter.
Day meant death. Today though, crueller;
today the twenty-fifth. Ironic,
now their role should be so tragic.


What happened then has never been explained.
A cry that swung all eyes round to the ground
between the lines: a soldier who had found
his friend, dead. He was praying, and so remained
as amazement gripped each line.
Men simply stared. They did not know,
they did not care, whether He was friend or foe.

They stared. He stood. Then sketched a sign:
the cross. And then, as though awaking, he called
to both sides to approach. Quietly
they rose, stumbling silently
towards Him. The maimed, the mauled
forgot their wounds, and hobbled out
to join the rest. Friend and foe there
waiting, hesitating, and finally embracing. The frozen air
was cracked with cries of joy. No doubt, no doubt,
this was the moment of truth. But even the truth is short;
and the winter day is short. And the sorrow
and the tears only last until tomorrow.
And then tomorrow opens with a sharp report.