He scratches his scruff
With the barrel of his handgun,
Knowing if he doesn’t clean it soon,
It will jam when he needs it most.
He takes another drag on his smoke,
Another sip of his mud,
No longer shaking at the shells
Exploding in the not quite distance.
He’s ready for his next charge
Over no man’s land.
The Vickers cannot touch him.
The raven flies overhead
And he knows it waits
For carrion; his enemies.
A man falls next to him,
Felled by a sniper’s round.
He is ready.
The order comes.
And he is first out of the trench.
He is first to fall.
His body will be picked clean
By Odin’s messengers,
But he has earned a seat
Amongst the heroes of his race.
Dcid Corvid 