Dreams Changed To Dry Clothes

We once ‘camped’ as you phrased it
in a swamp for seven days. The heat
haze and humidity were inconsequent
compared with where we waded in water
to our waists. While warm sweat and complete
wetness debilitate the crazed bugs that fed
on us were the biggest threat. It still amazes
that dreams changed to dry clothes – the feel
of socks drawn sensuously onto powdered feet,
the neat lacing of dry boots and the face
braced after a clean shave. Seven days
of constantly cleaning weapons that rusted
away, listening intent to leaves rustling,
peering through trees hell bent on seeing
them before they came from the gloom.
We could hear the distant boom and shriek
of an out-of-view engagement, we learned
of the way our formation took casualties,
prayed we’d be safe. When the choppers came
the sense of relief was omnipresent, invading
even recalcitrant’s who were usually too mired to
challenge belief or show fright. But the thought
was the same – there would be dry clothes tonight.
© I.D. Carswell 2007-02-07