Brother Cain

Robin Amis

Two sections of a long poem

And Cain talked with Abel his brother, and it came topass that when they were in the field, Cain rose up against

Abel, his brother, and slew him.

II

/ fought along the Somme upon that most historic day,And I might have been in khaki, might have been in field

grey,But I thought that I was winning till I heard an angel say"So you're back on earth again, my Brother Cain."

Stand-to with the dawn, sloughed in the mudWalled in by wounded earth, heavy of eyeForever the waiting, yet it was yesterdayI was a dozen miles away, to rest and pray.

Somewhere far awayA lonely gun stutters greeting the dawnAnd the howitzers crow their thunder to the skiesGouging the earth across the barren plainAll death and putrefaction waiting thereWaiting for me. The searching sunWith hellish fingers gropes- across the earthStriking the glint of fear off bayonetsMassed like a forest calcified with timeIn the two rivers waiting there acrossThe riven forests of that forsaken plain."Zero minus one", a hand in anger raised, or is it hate?The stock held close, the bolt snicked home,The machine takes over, the ruling mindIs squeezed alone into a dark corner of my lonely skullWaiting for hands to fall and hell to come-awake.First pressure, a shifting target shadow-seeking fastThe hand falls, the kick and acid cordite's reekThe sky carved into a hundred flighty kingdomsBy the bumbling wasps searching the mounds of fleshFor something to sting.

Searing light and pain and fireAnd broken earth and lives and livesCompressed to an instant passing into nightAnd the voice both loved and hatedCalling me, calling my trapped mind in the dark . . ."Abel, Abel my brother!"

IV/ drew a bow at Agincourt, at Crecy won the dayBore a sword at Blenheim and a lance at Malplaquet,But my memory goes further, to that prehistoric dayThat last time my brother called me "Brother Cain".

Hot serge and horses' breath, the dustOf hot French fields, dry corn trampledAn army grouping round a hill. GleamOf sun on armour, sounds of jingling mailA drum that strikes a rhythm, and the shoutsOf weary men, driving home stakes in the hard soil.The feel of an arrow straight and trueStraight and true from me to you, willow wand of woeDeath's dark dispenser, slender stick of sorrowReplace it. Another! A shout . . .The Prince! Black armour shines like night.

Sudden a trumpet through the morning airA line of men breaks from the many-hued French.Silence grows into sound of moving armourTread of heavy horses. A trumpet for England!More horses. Two lines galloping toCollision, the smell of blood the sound of steelOn steel, horses rearing, panic squealProud lances shattered, proud heads bowed to dustProud shields trampled, armour soon to rustThe proudest Cains that ever wereAre doing what they must.

As the ball bounces, as the thundering waveDrains silent back to the Ocean whence it sprangThe two lines part, like wrestlers drawing breath.Slow as death itself the great French mass advances.Kneel behind the stakes. Kneel and string your bowFlex the tautened string as only English muscles knowDistant, the ratchet winch clicks on the stiff crossbowLet 'em come, the mongrel Latins, we've a trick or two

to show.

A sharp commandThe thunk of stringsNotch, draw, release, some dance macabreIs mocking peace, notch, draw, releaseNow screams sound closer, loud as any dreamsThe thump of the casual crossbow boltAnd dashing, clashing armour. Notch draw release.What is it for? Notch draw releaseWhy do I fight? Notch draw releaseWho are these French? Notch draw releaseWhat have they done? Notch draw releaseTo me . . . have they . . . notch draw releaseKilled me, my wife, my lonely children . . .Do I fear them, that they might? AndIf they might, whyunless they fearI'd do the same for them? Would I?What am I here for? Notch draw release.If I die who shall plough my stripsOn the rolling Sussex down, who shall repairThe clumsy roof of the humble hut I call home?To live, have I to stop another manReturning in his way to his wife and childShall they watch alone through the dark night?The bolt that cleaves my helm shall bear the name of

Brother CainAs the death of man for man when the old fear rides again.

5

Universities & Left Review 7 Autumn 1959