The Greeks and Trojans scuffle in the dust.
The battle slips away to leave the plain
Dead dust beneath the sun.
A thing not death, not quite, though not quite life,
Gropes for its name.
Light is a stick which beats and stabs and hurts him.
Wings baffle down to the dust.
Claws trundle as his daze
Mouths air, mouths blood
To swallow a cough.
His focus sharpens
On a buzzard's eye black-hollowed,
Puck-blank above a scrawny neck,
Its motive knifing forward:
Despite his spasm, the greeding puttock
Jabs past a warding hand,
Plucks a soft centre.
And the thing with no scream
Gapes at the blackness,
And wishes it could die.