Harry
Harry (Humbly dedicated to the last veterans of World War One)
He stare’s 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 Fred, Jack 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,
his fear held in check to avoid the Officer’s gun,
No time left
Stay close Fred, Jack glanced,
while Bert squeezed a locket around his neck.
A quick nod, the soldier’s 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 walk into the grey,
Fodder for the machine gun, no defence, we fall.
Once more our lads are summoned into oblivion,
there 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 Bert, silence for Fred, and silence for Jack.
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 fag,
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.
(2012)
Dedicated to Harry Patch. The last Tommy who sadly died in 2011.
