Poem introduction

This poem is called 'Walking Wounded'

Walking Wounded

A mammoth morning moved grey flanks and groaned.
In the rusty hedges pale rags of mist hung;
The gruel of mud and leaves in the mauled lane
Smelled sweet, like blood. Birds had died or flown,
Their green and silent attics sprouting now
With branches of leafed steel, hiding round eyes
And ripe grenades ready to drop and burst.
In the ditch at the cross-roads the fallen rider lay
Hugging his dead machine and did nor stir
At crunch of mortar, tantrum of a Bren
Answering a Spandau's manic jabber.
Then into sight the ambulances came,
Stumbling and churning past the broken farm,
The amputated sign-post and smashed trees,
Slow wagonloads of bandaged cries, square trucks
That rolled on ominous wheels, vehicles
Made mythopoeic by their mortal freight
And crimson crosses on the dirty white.
This grave procession passed, though, for a while,
The grinding of their engines could be heard,
A dark noise on the pallor of the morning,
Dark as dried blood; and the it faded, died.
The road was empty, but it seemed to wait -
Like a stage which knows the cast is in the wings -
Wait for a different traffic to appear.
The mist still hung in snags from dripping thorns;
Absent-minded guns still sighed and thumped.
And then they came, the walking wounded,
Straggling the road like convicts loosely chained,
Dragging at ankles exhaustion and despair.
Their heads were weighted down by last night's lead,
And eyes still drank the dark. They trailed the night
Along the morning road. Some limped on sticks;
Others wore rough dressings, splints and slings;
A few had turbanned heads, the dirty cloth
Brown-badged with blood. A humble brotherhood,
Not one was suffering from a lethal hurt,
They were not magnified by noble wounds,
There was no splendour in that company.
And yet, remembering after eighteen years,
In the heart's throat a sour sadness stirs;
Imagination pauses and returns
To see them walking still, but multiplied
In thousands now. And when heroic corpses
Turn slowly in their decorated sleep
And every ambulance has disappeared
The walking wounded still trudge down that lane,
And when recalled they must bear arms again.


from Collected Poems 1950-1993 (Robson Books Ltd, 1993), copyright © Vernon Scannell 1993, used by permission of the author

Recordings

Vernon Scannell Reading from his Poems

1They Did Not Expect This

2The Lynching

3The Great War

4Walking Wounded

5A Case of Murder

6When we were Married

7A Song to Celebrate

8Growing Pain

9Spot-Check at Fifty

10The Loving Game

11Wicket Maiden

12The Bombing of the Cafe de Paris, 1941

13On Leave: May 1916

14Candle Reflections

15Hands

16Drinking Up Time

17Sentences

18Casualty - Mental Ward

19Frying Tonight

20The Searchers

21Sunt Lacrimae Rerum

Books & cds by Vernon Scannell