Armistice
The war stopped precisely
where it was. Soldiers
mortared foundations
inside their fighting positions —
then they erected walls,
then windows and roofs. At night
they gazed from their bedrooms
down into the valley
with its dim town
they’d failed to enter. Trenches
swelled with rainwater;
soon punts and tour boats
slipped over the dugouts.
So many of the structures
we lived among — that shaped
our days — belonged to the war.
Tanks packed with silence
rested in the square. Bombers
hovered — frozen —
above their targets,
and the children wondered
at what was up there.
They began climbing the ladders
of bombs hanging from the sky —
and when the most daring
reached the bays to clamber
finally into the cockpits, the war
snapped back into motion.
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