The Fosse by Andrew Scotson

I am not a silent poet

Cold fingers undo the laces
one last time, thick mud
pulled away, stud marked
to the changing room floor.

Blue shirt leaves his thin torso
he turns, laughs, tries to forget.
The papers come, last game,
tomorrow to leave Leicester.

For France, for Belgium,
fighting someone he didn’t know
he didn’t like, for someone
he doesn’t know or care about.

Through bullet and blast wind
the boy runs for his life,
over dirt mixed with blood,
past wire and crater deep.

Till one random shot
ends the match
and twenty one years
becomes his full time.

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