Memorial Day

                                         (Flanders Field American Cemetery, Waregem, Belgium 2013)

Warrior

Wagoner Higgins watched his chargers:
manes faded to flaxen; sorrel and rust; browns
neither bay nor chestnut, tinged by blood
and sulphur. Beasts turned
to dark magnets of mud and hair.
Their eyes burned blue and amber
through the gas and flame, their bones
formed taut tents of hide beneath the harness.
Battle tested long faced and wise
too much sense to play or shy.
When too scarred, or scared, to go on, they fed
a company’s hunger, those last ounces
of usefulness in soup and stew.

These were brutes who crossed
rivers and canals where bridges failed
drank their fill and then passed through
villages and muddy farms. Not gifts
or special pals, just grunts like everyone else.
Wagoner Higgins rests where Belgium earth
was churned by the war to end all;
we’ve beaten the peace like horseflesh.