Along Imjin River, 1951 by Tim Park (15, Philippines)

The two boots go side by side, 
dry as the rations of yesternight, 
devoid of the promised rain. 
They step over and around 
the ones who got too close, 
empty shells now barely breaking 
the surface of the Imjin River. 

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​The bearer pauses to quench his thirst, taking a moment to write a letter back home, to Small Heath Birmingham. 
The sonamoo trunks are severed 
from their roots, some floating 
in the depths of the water, which smells of cadaverine and, as the desperate can attest, tastes like hammers and nails. 
​
The Korean Spring has unraveled. 
The water deer have long gone. 
The male sparrow glides over the tree trunks, searching for a landing spot. 
It is unlike the stories that the bearer has heard, of beot-kkots and new beginnings. 
The boots begin to pick up their pace– for yesterday’s comrades are today’s memories.