A Poem for Remembrance Day

I wrote this after watching a late night newscast during a previous Afghan war.

THE RUSSIAN SOLDIER

Dazed by his dying

The Russian soldier

Ambushed

Slowly slides on his seat down the dusty bank

Like a mannequin

Straight backed

Upright

Tumbling to this side or that

Straight backed

Stiff jointed

Like an old man who cannot turn his head without his torso.

Dusty uniform

Afghanistan dust

Blackened bloody face

Russian blood

American money bought a

Russian Kalashnikov assault rifle to be

Pointed at him by Afghan hands.

Having pointed and fired

The freedom fighter

Collects arms and ammunition from

The dead ones while an

American news cameraman

Points his sixteen millimetre

Camera-weapon at the

Dying Russian soldier who

Sits up like an

Old man mannequin

Helped by the slope he's sliding down

Beside the road

To sit up before

Tumbling over again

Stiff jointed

Straight backed

Like an old man because he's dying

Like an old man before his time.

Russians who are already

Dead are

Lying in pools of their

Russian blood

Beside their dead trucks

Standing in pools of their leaking

Russian gasoline.

The American news cameraman is still

Following the dying one who is

Crawling away in his

Blind, old man's search for

Something to crawl under or

Arms to crawl into on his

Hands and Knees.

But all the arms are collecting

Guns and ammunition or

Pointing the camera at the lone

Dying man while the

Reporter takes notes.

Round face

Blackened and bloody

Bruised beneath the blood and blackening

Turns to look back over his dusty shoulder

At me

Looking at the him through the

American news cameraman's camera.

Eyes

Startling white and blue in a

Blackened face

As he looks back at me

In sharp focus thanks to the

Skill of the American news cameraman.

Dying animal look not quite

Focussed on me

Seeing beyond

Things I cannot see

Through the

Sixteen millimetre camera viewfinder.

Because he's Russian

He has no less a mother

a wife

a sweetheart

a son

a baby daughter

a closet full of clothes at home

A chocolate box full of photos and letters

Bound with string

No less a mind full of memories.

Alone

Crawling like an old man-infant

In the dust

Stunned by the blast and the hurt

Being followed by a photographic

Cyclops which only

Stares unblinkingly so the

Folks at home can see him

Die.