Fourth Parallel, T 127 432: July Evening

A tank trundles past and into the trees -
And disappears quickly out of sight,
And there's no-one round who sees
The tiny and flickering prick of light.
Some soldiers pass, running at a trot
And yet still no notice is shown
The soldier lying on the ground is no longer hot
And from his lips escapes a moan.

He has what every poet hates, in spite
Of all the loneliness and devestation.
Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the night
And the dark and cold and no circulation.
Lying at a tank track, but no-one sees the ring
His broken body and every bleeding thing.

This poem is a parody, of sorts, of a Patrick Kavanagh poem, Inniskeen Road : July Evening, which follows:

Inniskeen Road: July Evening

The bicycles go by in twos and threes -
There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn tonight,
And there's the half-talk code of mysteries
And the wink-and-elbow language of delight.
Half-past eight and there is not a spot
Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown
That might turn out a man or woman, not
A footfall tapping secrecies of stone.

I have what every poet hates in spite
Of all the solemn talk of contemplation.
Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight
Of being king and government and nation.
A road, a mile of kingdom. I am king
Of banks and stones and every blooming thing.