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Poetry
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| A Child's Passchendaele | |
| By purplelady | ||||||||||
| 14 July 2006 | ||||||||||
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A Childs Passchendaele Outside the window the car engine stops, the tail-lights dim. In the trench of her bed the child tenses, braces herself during the brief silence, before her parents go over the top. SLAM, goes the back door. Then the machine-gun rattle of the father’s voice, firing off volleys of questions. He is angry tonight, spoiling for a fight. Quickly, battle stations are assumed as the parental super-powers enter the arena. The father’s voice, raised in anger, staccato sounds, shell bursts, and then the big gun of the mother’s voice booms in injured reply. Back and forth, on, and on, and on, and on, Rat tat tat tat, booom, booom, booom, But she lacks his command of language, and soon, Running out of ammo, she beats a retreat behind the lines to the kitchen, To lick her wounds, and formulate too late, her telling retorts. Meanwhile, triumphant, he settles to his beer. In the unsafe redoubt of her bedroom the child curls tightly, waiting for the next bombardment.
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,a good write
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