Poetry

(Humbly dedicated to the last
veterans of World War One)

He stares through the window
In wheelchair he knows,
Gabriel is just a pause behind
him.
His last duty, to open a door in
his mind
Of memories torn from 1917, where
he left,

Jack Fred and Bert, Pals forever
A moment singled out from a
thousand days of torment

Bully Beef, Baccy and sweet tea
in the Morning
A pair of socks from a loved one,
And friendship forged in the
baptism of War.
These were his treasures, His
only relief

Then the guns of Britannia,
manufacturing widows by the gross, as
Gas and Shell screamed for their
quota of today’s carcass.

For a moment Harry felt sadness
for his foe
Then it was gone
No time,

Heart Beating, Breath quickening,
Stomach in Knots,
Fear held in check to avoid the
Officer’s gun,
No time left, Stay Close Jack,
Fred glanced,
While Bert squeezed a locket
around his neck
A quick nod, The Soldiers
farewell

Then the whistle, Gabriel’s Horn,
over the top
His refuge abandoned, for the
embrace of the fog,

It masked the land, as if to
avoid offending God
Slowly creeping its vale of
death,

Gun in hand they walked into the
grey.
Fodder for the Machine gun, No defense,
we fall.
Once more our lads are summoned
into oblivion.

Their blood sanitizing the soil
with England’s youth
Like a red carpet, for their
comrades to walk the next day.

Then the retreat, back to his rat
infested trench
Gods reward he thought,

Then Roll call, Silence for Jack,
Silence for Fred, and Silence for Bert
Harry felt shame in answering,
for a second; he too wanted to embrace silence with his pals.

But Soldiers must go on, as do
the righteous
And England expects
For I fight for a Heavenly cause,
so I’m told,
Though I do not know what that is

All I know is fear
Although this impostor, I can
live with
You see my friends are gone;
My humanity is lost
And my soul awaits its next trial


Is it a blessing that I am alive
or,
Just a delay,
For death stalks me, waiting for
his reward.

My sanity saved only by the sweet
tea and a cig,
Dry socks, and a letter or two
from home

No time for sentiment, the
whistle,

Memories, memories
Oh, there you are Gabriel
welcome.
Hello lads where you been.