Reach-me-down

His shift finished, the pale physician leaves

Methodical, he melts into morning

The grass he gave a cold shock now believes

That this will be a fine, warm, happy spring

Your borrowed, bellicose hat knows better

It smells like tea spilled by a trembling hand

That would never write that last, sweet letter

Nor wave like mad to encourage the band

A shrieking shell liberated your hat

War strips legions of their scarlet costumes

Home it came to your winter head, you brat

The woozy grass complains about the fumes

That haunt it still, of terror in a trench

Let's hope the spring will wash away that stench