The Quiet Battlefields

The battlefields are quiet tonight,
no voices in your head,
no dark words from beyond
to wrestle with like Jacob’s dark angel,

no bombshells sent from Satan,
custom designed to penetrate your heart,
that bunker you opened up so tentatively
to let in the fresh air of love.

There is wind, quiet and cool,
clearing the haze of war slowly,
so slowly, as you sit
on the edge of your trench,

shell shocked but willing to be here,
willing to wait the night, not knowing
if the battle is done, or if in the morning
you will begin again.

About this poem

I woke about three this morning, and had trouble going to back sleep. My head was awash in thoughts and emotions, none of which I could seem to grasp hold of to concentrate on. And then when, I finally gave up and came downstairs to write, in my head there was… nothing. My head was quiet.

I walked up the quarry and watched the sun come over the mountains, nothing on my mind but the morning air and light. So much nothing I had trouble grasping it. But eventually, this poem came.

The picture was taken a couple of weeks ago, while visiting my favorite cousins. To get to their house you go through “The Wilderness” in Virginia, a collection of Civil War Battlefields. Quiet ones.

Have a blessed day,

Tom