The Head of the Traitor

 I could have ripped
The head off
As he sat there--
On his horse,
So Smug and
Brash and Cold
As if he were
A knight
From Arthur's legends
Of some great
Virtue as
The Knights
Of Old

Torn apart the
Sinews that
Held it on there
As if it were not
Bronzed like
Coloured lead:
Smoothed, like wax
The face
of
Mocking snideness
Never creased
by summers of
Our Dead

I felt an
anger as it rose
Within me
Rage I've never
Felt, for e'er so long
I could have
Ripped
The Head
From Off that
Statue
Of Douglas Haig
The Butcher
Of The Somme