Salute Them Too
Salute them too.
As that old clock struck six, on that cold Winter's morn.
An unjust bullet ripped through his tunic bloodied, tattered and torn.
They said he should die, as he didn't have the heart.
But he wasn't born to kill, out of trenches so dark.
A call to arms would bring pals from his hometown.
Defense of the realm, their King and the crown.
It will be over by Christmas, they said, God Willing.
With a chest full of medals and a tarnished King's shilling.
Trumpet peels would give way to Reality's joke.
Boots seeped in mud and blackened lungs full of smoke.
Realisation of his place, on this battlefield he's a pawn .
He had no stomach for the fight, as friends he would mourn.
Rank and file were stirred, by an Officer's rousing speech.
But tears ran from his face, onto his gun's open breech.
His body would stiffen, as his bayonet eased from his grip.
And a gifted white feather would be added to the script.
Wrists cut by iron shackles, as he lays in his cell.
And he prays for forgiveness and release from this hell.
Stood before his betters, his fate he would learn
The black cap gave the verdict, comrades backs they would turn.
Now a hundred years on, can we finally understand?
A broken mind, doesn't make us a less of a man.
Despite history book text, I hope we can finally see.
Frail hearts that did fall, were still better men than me.
Copyright © Neil Andrew Hornby | Year Posted 2018
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