Poetry

Bayonet

In a glass case of time
I’m looking at the bayonet
Imagining its pain.
Its metal tarnished by time
Spoiling
The careful workmanship of the blade,
Dulling
The small riveted handle of wood.
It’s a human thing.
The handle made to fit a human hand
The blade to penetrate the guts
And cut the bones within
Eternal
As flint knife and bronze spear
The soft body of history
Is opened and spilled
By the shining point
Of war and death.

John Charles William Morris
23rd October 2014