PORTRAIT OF THE DUKE OF WELLINGTON: 1814
The eyes have it. Deep in that oblique stare
he's ordering the field and saying yes.
He nods. Cavalry wheels and muskets smoke.
"I will my Lord." He plays his masterstroke
then gallops off towards the day's success,
blue-blooded, arrogant and debonair.
The nose is shaped for war: it smells defeat
and caution - when it's time to shake the head.
There have been weeks of marching in grey dust
then waiting for the sudden blood-stained thrust,
the chess-board overturned, the wounds' bright red,
black vultures chortling in the Spanish heat.
Arms folded and a canvas blank as peace
scar-brown, a horse's shoulder behind his.
Leave out uncertainty, deck him in braid
and let him join the coloured cavalcade
of alpha males klnowing just how it is
renting their fame from us. We own the lease.
THE BATTLE OF SALAMANCA
Vulures in burning skies: they know it's sealed
before Duke Wellington makes up his mind.
The squaddy feels quick panic in his eyes
as armies circle, pause, try to disguise
their faltereing nerve. Now only man is blind;
the birds see harvests ripening in the field.
Behind the lines, Scovell, code-breaker, sweats:
the numbers in the cipher tell of troops
innumerable, as the French regroup.
They prey on him, black figures, silent threats.
Ten days ago, on the Duero's banks,
the soldiers, on both sides, laughed, bowed and waved,
watered their horses in a stream of peace,
washing their hands of death in a release
of hope that some, some few, refreshed and shaved
might live in cleanliness. "Merci!" "Yes, thanks."
An army marches on the strength of codes:
their Paris cipher's weaker than his brain.
He reads the messages en clair again.
That's it: the mini-armistice explodes.
Thunder that night, the battles's autocue:
great horses rear in images of war,
dragoons are trampled but the day breaks clear;
the times have gone for hope or even fear,
those vultures long for redness on the claw.
The general cries: "By God, sir! This will do."
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Vulures in burning skies: they know it's sealed
before Duke Wellington makes up his mind.
The squaddy feels quick panic in his eyes
as armies circle, pause, try to disguise
their faltereing nerve. Now only man is blind;
the birds see harvests ripening in the field.
Behind the lines, Scovell, code-breaker, sweats:
the numbers in the cipher tell of troops
innumerable, as the French regroup.
They prey on him, black figures, silent threats.
Ten days ago, on the Duero's banks,
the soldiers, on both sides, laughed, bowed and waved,
watered their horses in a stream of peace,
washing their hands of death in a release
of hope that some, some few, refreshed and shaved
might live in cleanliness. "Merci!" "Yes, thanks."
An army marches on the strength of codes:
their Paris cipher's weaker than his brain.
He reads the messages en clair again.
That's it: the mini-armistice explodes.
Thunder that night, the battles's autocue:
great horses rear in images of war,
dragoons are trampled but the day breaks clear;
the times have gone for hope or even fear,
those vultures long for redness on the claw.
The general cries: "By God, sir! This will do."
To return to the Home Page click here
