It's sometimes quiet
With little noises louder than you'd expect.
Little hustling bustling, rustling noises
Now and again
Made by little frightened hungry creatures
But is it them ?
Or is it men ?
There aren't any dry leaves, here in the mud,
There aren't any little frightened creatures left,
To hustle, or bustle, or rustle
All that's left are the rats, big and fat, and fierce,
And not at all frightened.
So listen harder, listen for,
A sound that's more than the sergeant's snore.
The stealthy slithering knive's unsheathing,
I can hear- I can hear - I can hear my breathing,
Would I have time to shout a warning
Can I hold, my nerve till morning?
Will I stay awake, stifle a yawn ?
Or fall asleep,
And be shot at dawn.
© nigel hallworth 2014