Atavism

Descending and turning

A shadow with soles in his hand

Standing alone by the garden I hear his command

Swaying blindly, under a moribund sun

Strangely the pain has only begun

Painlessly crossing the yard-lines,

the ball in his hand

Piles of bodies dispatched in the grass

and the sand

Helmets crashing, under the weight of the one

Vaguely aware the pain has begun

Out of the window the sirens of slaughter begin

Whistling alone in the silence

I hear them come in

Fading, blinded, foraging under the leaves

Strangely the pain is finally relieved