The Trench And The Fry

Beneath grey skies, the battered meal is laid,
A soldier's feast, though no gunfire has played.
The chips, pale as fear, lie limp in their rows,
Soft as the faces of comrades, fallen foes.

The fish, crisped and flaking in oily skin,
Tears at the edges, like battle-worn men.
Yet still, we eat, with salt on our breath,
Tasting the tang of earth, sweat, and death.

How strange it seems, this simple, quiet bite—
While outside, the world still crumbles in fight.
Yet here, in the grease and the paper’s fold,
We take in the warmth, though the day grows cold.