Remembering Beowulf

Remember to us that good king
who goes now over the last whale-road
on his way into matchless fame and oblivion
truly the way of kings.
Remember racks and racks of shining mail
and arm-rings and wrist-rings
handed out to his men, that gift-giver who knew no equal!
Remember the gleaming of his swords in the gloaming
and the way they shone at sunrise, and how
the spear-points glittered at the noon of his glory
not so long ago.
And remember to us the whomp-whomp-whomping of his helicopters,
gunships black and silhouetted over the deserted dunes
the formic acid carried on their little wingtips.
And remember the rumble of his panzers
as they rolled though and over and across everything
that stood-
          -Tiresome, isn't it?  Now the young men have gone to sleep
and dream of the clatter and cracks of bullets and the stink
of viscera, that never really leaves your mustache.
And the old men, who should be mighty,
are no more than granite faces that are unmoving
in the firelight because they match the twists and turns so well.

I was in St. Michael's salient
when all Hell was let loose.