SUNDAY WITHOUT BELLS

werd armys little soldier out and about
forced marching undercover
in 
a
civilian stroll.


no bells ring today/no mist today
the
sky
is
powder iron/the rec full of shouts and sunday football.


(player out there dressed in a white boiler suit 
hood up 
hoofs the leather too high)


general light orders enemy wire be subdued/i buy light white danish bread in the shop/read all the dates on all the loaves.


a couple/woman has a baby held inside her coat
gaze
silently
at
the coffee machine/buy nothing - i feel no loathing
at
their breeding and optimism/at the nothing morning stuffed
with
100
quiet nows/soft machines suffer with meaning - this is new/a late UN peace laid over
the
background
blur
of white noise nerves/behind my giddy mind
and
low
in 
my
minotaur guts/civil war crisis - cant waive its wisecrack claws.


i read all the dates on all the loaves/tech sirens
a
message
of 
support on the small screen/i am delicate enough
to
brew an unshed tear
in
gratitude/werd armys little soldier shows general light
the
slight smile
a
feeling can summon
out
the derelict armoury/disorganised and dangerous/werd armys little
soldier
has
stored
his powder against regulations/sergeant at arms
is
preparing a clean up/crew on stand by
waiting
for
clearance from general light.


crossing the field again there is a goal scored/i am behind the net and the leather
rings
a loud bell off the post/there is quiet celebration
already
well
ahead.


in i go the writing room without removing my hat/werd armys little soldier
straight into the trenches/fixed bayonets
fighting
to
subdue
the enemy
wire.