Covered in matted hay.
It needles your ears
With a low, cold whisper
And takes with it
The flesh from your bones.
Trudging lead-footed
Up to the barbed wire fence,
You stop and look
To the steely blue orb
Showering white light
Into the harsh winter's air.
You reach out to grip
The top black cord
With dry, purple knuckles.
The piercing of your palm
Warms your numb fist.
Lifting the wire and
Sending your cramped legs
Through to more to more hard, dead earth,
Your socks are drenched in sweat
And black by now
From mud and lacerations.
The air appears before you
In intervals as
Warm, wet pockets dissipating.
You wonder starkly:
"...where the fuck are my shoes.."
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