Hero of the Field

You touched my waxen face
All activity in the now
had already slipped away
when you set foot in this sunken field
your calves were deep in cold mud
red and white were your markers
I pulled myself down
away from plaintive offerings
to where no breath touched
you realised too late
the nature of flesh
lesser manifestation
of prayer to night
and though you were not lost
inside your frame
you were gripped by the terror
and stumbled back
to the sympathy of familiar altars.