The Spring floods did it,
Those same torrents
Which washed the bodies downstream,
To festoon the trees near Klujc,
The baubles of war,
Multihued, lurid,
Iridescent: almost.
Stinking for former Yugoslavia.

They also took the Hungarian Army bridge,
On the road to Sanski Most,
We’ll put up a new one,
Solid: British: it’ll stand,
But first,
Drag away the old one,
The one that our bombers dropped,
Two months ago.

So, bring on the ARV.
Hook up the winch
To the concrete slabs.
Drag ’em the feck off-side,
Put up a good old Bailey,
Big job though: the Jugs built well,
No problem: dig the spade in,
And heave like bloody hell.

Winch complains; cable strains,
But, the slab shifts,
A bit.
More purchase needed,
Relocate the bloody spade.
Hoist it outta the mud,
Hoist it outta the blood.
The blood?

The blood?
And the guts?
The reeking, rotten body parts?
A village’s worth at least; all a-mix,
Gives Communism a whole new spin, this.
Serb? Croat? Bosnian?
So, who cares? Let NATO bury them.
But, it all came out in the wash.