Saturday, 19 January 2013

No Pancakes on Sundays  

It was Sunday.
I heard a gunshot, not so far from where I was standing.
The rain was falling hard now,
it bounced off my helmet like pennies in a sweet jar.
Ting, ting, ting.
Mud had begun to rise further up my legs.
It smelt dirty, hot, and miserable.
This was a long way from home.
I missed the sweet smell of pancakes on a Sunday morning,
and fresh cereal on Mondays.
I was jealous and hated that I had to eat out of a grotty metal tin;
cold beans, hard rice, dirty water.
I can only moan to myself, in my head, inaudible to the rest.
My friend died yesterday.
A bullet zipped through the night air and pierced his left lung.
Now, there was more gun fire up ahead.
The air was thick and heavy, suffocating.
I dropped to the floor, repulsing as the dirt invaded my eyes.
With my vision blurred, I crawled to a fortress of rocks.
Looking around I saw an arm leave its body,
a sea of red followed.
The medic attended.
The captain was shouting over the radio for help.
The bullets became heavier and the noise became louder.
I could hear my own breathing over it all,
my heart was beating too fast.
The heat from the blaze seared my skin like boiling water.
I gripped my gun, pulled it to my chest, trigger finger ready.
I thought of home, of the sweet Sunday pancakes.
I looked up to the sun.

© Nicola Copeland 

British soldier who died from wounds named

Nicola Copeland, 25 years old, started writing poetry about 5 years ago. She is studying towards a Masters in Writing from Liverpool John Moores University and blogs at