Rocky Mountain Veteran
by Carol Wolrich
Email: CarolWolrich2@activemail.co.uk
There is clarity in the crystalline snow.
He can be new here. At least, by day,
with his rifle, claiming deer, and his line
to catch brown trout in fresh-water lakes,
amid regimented columns of lodgepole pine.
But, at night, heat haunts his mind; in
a place of wet grime on putrid skin. And
the sweat of self-loathing.
When the chopper finally came, they had
strapped him down, still fighting. Allowed
to keep his necklace of trophy flesh;
a souvenir to take stateside. Blood-gelled,
on a scrap of leather string; unlucky for
some - thirteen. Buried long ago. Discarded
with purple hearts and comrades' photographs.
These days, he hunts alone.
©2005 Carol Wolrich
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