War within War
War Within War
Let us pray.
Heads bowed to private thoughts in unison,
To the father we give thanks.
Father, ah that weak old man of 50 years and wasted life in Swansea bay.
That pin pricked cushion, of walking croaking dead eyed existence, common as muck,
Pitiful as sorrow
Useful as not.
Wet on the outside, soaking on the inner from diamond white and special brew that wasn’t white, wasn’t special, just cheap!
Yes padre lovely service thanks, yes family are fine thank you.
Evans 42? A familiar voice of enquiring stripes that barked and beckoned.
Two troop today mush, you and Dai Jones Are walking amongst the flowers, no holding hands mind!
Nerves jingling, ears and eyes trained to catch a moving leaf,
Hear a change of wind
Hear the rifles cock.
Fat the heads of bulbous poison, cut to bleed to creat the need to pay the feed.
Oh dad not again!
As The empty wallet is lifted, from amongst the overturned crumpled empty cans,
desert spoon lighter scorched from cooking, smell of fish turned bad that turns the guts, that boils the blood
And count my temper down to save myself.
Heads up spud!
Excited voices raise to chatter in pigeon English, squaddie slang that cuts the crap and speaks.
Rifle butts, snug to shoulder and comfortable as child on mothers hip and ready.
Friendly forces! friendly forces says tango two one,
In a voice heightened with relief, smiling.
Sad the farmer, wrinkled of skin and dressed in wear ancient as time,
Traditional as death.
Slave to the Taliban, slave to the soldier, slave to my dad!
This unfortunate soul that grows the Devils powder to grace a global street, rich,
Yet fights to eat.
Home tomorrow!
Back to climb that cobbled hell of constitution hill,
Where hope slides down on rain washed filth and runs to Hannover street and stays.
Home to run the gauntlet of St. Helens road,
Where Islamic ignorance, flaunts it’s tradition of arrogance and walks my pavement Welsh, to stand me on guard forever.
Home, to beautiful cymdonkin park and students drunk, but talented, Clever!
Home, to a rented patch of concrete damp and cold as my dad, Miserable as the wrinkled farmer.
Home, where Poppy heads still smile from lush meadows far away, breaking the hearts of Swansea mothers
And asking me, was my service mainly in vain?
J Ward ( 2014 )
(2015)
It's about a soldier returning home from tour of Afgan, his father is a heroin addict.
