The General Copyright © Elisabeth Rowe 2010

A day spent marking time.
He boils eggs for supper,
cuts her toast into soldiers,
flashes back to the desert
and his men sizzling eggs
on the bonnet of a jeep.

I am trained to kill, he thinks,
trying to still the hand
that flutters like a captive bird.
They are in enemy territory
and he knows the campaign
is pretty advanced.

There are daily skirmishes:
he hates the sodden sheets,
food wide of the target, her
snail’s pace across the floor;
she hates to see him fretting,
confined to barracks.

Darkness has crept up on them.
Always a man of action,
he washes her face and hands
with a warm flannel, then
opens the window to let in
the soft evening air.

In the border the tall perennials
are marching towards night.
He longs for the desert sky,
the glittering stars like flames
he could reach out and snuff
between finger and thumb.