Half buried and crippled in land no man can hold;

Pals still around me, close by to the end,

With face’s stark white in flare’s icy glow;

Some contorted, few at peace, but all deathly cold.

Now west’s in my view, sinks fast my own sun,

Dragging forth memories of family, of friends

And I rushing to join, of tasks completed

But mainly of what’s left undone.

Just seconds now before my last night’s assault,

On shimmering gates of pearl this time,

With St Peter stood-to, ready to call the roll

And balance the books for all earthly fault.

No fifteen a minute will break Peter’s line,

All that’s left me is to wish for more time

To undo what’s past said, to remake friend from foe,

But that’s a gift never destined to be mine.

　© John Sales 2009.