Red Wheelbarrow, a writting class essay

The rain was letting up, that he was thankful of. It had been raining last night when he had fallen asleep, it was raining as he woke up, and it had continued to rain until midday when the rat-tat-tat of drops on the window became a soft pat-pat-pat and the cool glass his face rested against warmed slightly with the sun. The clouds were passing. At least the garden was well watered.

The animals, too, recognized the change. The dog pawed the door and the cat settled down in his place beside the window to enjoy the new sun born from the dark clouds. Struggling, his boots were put on and the door was open and both man and his best friend burst into the yard and the dew and the musty air.

The dog ran off and the yard transformed in his mind. The area was a muddy trench now, the battle ground of a war to end all wards. The mud squelched under his boots as he patrolled. His men were dead. The enemy had won. Or so they thought.

As long as he survived, there was hope. A mosquito buzzed at his ear. Quickly, into the bush! Stay low, enemy aircrafts are scanning the area. The summer day turned into the darkest night. There were flashlights in the distance, people speaking foreign tongues. Two came close, their lights grazing the leaves above his head. Eyes closed, he listened carefully. “Sie Zerbrochen unter Folter. Es gibt eine links.”(Hervey, and Loughride) He checked his book for translation. They knew he was there. There was no hope.

But then…what’s that? That, across the mud and filth; an aircraft carrier half-sunk in the mud. It was one of theirs, the kind he’d flown in the first war when he was just a young man. He could remember it , but not so clearly. It seems all his memories were shot up with bullet holes and burnt along the edges like the photos his wife sent.


He had to fly the airplane alone his first time up. Other pilots have several hours of dual time in the air, with an experienced, qualified pilot in the aircraft. So for a student fighter pilot who would not get his wings for more than three more weeks, taking up this brand new kind of airplane was a challenge. (Robin)

It had toughened him, made his skin thick as leather. That’s how he’d survived this time when all the young and green were picked off so quick. The lights receded and he picked his way out of the brush slowly so as not to attract attention. It was a good twenty minutes away, but he could make it. He’d made it this far.

The boots stuck in the mud and every step was like a fight, like the hands of the men he had shot were holding him tight until he was found They had no voice to call out, but they slowed his pace. Twenty minutes could easily become thirty, forty. Maybe more. He was lucky though. With the land and weather what it was, the wet and the cold, his socks were soaked through. Trench foot was the least of his worries, but the thought was there. If he didn’t make it, he was dead anyways. But if he did there would be pretty Red Cross nurses like his wife having to saw his leg off at the knee. His pack was long gone so there was no chance to solve the problem. It was best just to push on.

More mosquito fighter planes and from afar, barking. They had brought the dogs. There wasn’t much time left. He pictured big German Shepherds with glossy black fur, teeth bared. They’d go for the throat. Maybe the rain and the scent of the dead would hold them off for a while. He was almost there. The trenches were so flooded but going above ground to the bushes and the flatter ground was too dangerous. The barking came closer, sharp like a knife through his chest. It was so close, his red beauty, and with every step she grew larger and larger until he could almost feel her cool steel under his palms, rain dripping from her propeller. He was so close, he was so close..

Mother’s calling from inside the house. His feet dry inside rain boots, the yard transforms again. The little dog chases clucking chickens. Rain drips off the rusted lip of the red wheel barrow. A letter from his father came in the mail. Maybe he’ll be flying home soon.

so much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
Chickens (Williams)