My ANZAC poem

Dear Merry

My shaking limbs,

Are being attacked by the rats around me.

Whenever I peep out of the muddy trenches,

I hear the whistle of bullets narrowly missing my head.

As I climb the sand dunes,

I can smell the air and smoke,

Growing thicker and thicker.

I can taste the salty rain,

Washing my blood and sweat into my dry mouth.

I see the deep trenches,

Slowly turning into a sea of mud with the rain.

As I touch the mud around me,

The tips of my fingers go numb with frost bite.

So much for an exciting adventure.

I will miss you.

Love, William