The Big Picture
When standing in a foreign meadow
facing the end of someone’s rifle,
don’t think of me or your England
there is a bullet with a name on
made with pride; made with skill to kill; you,
and when you have indeed fallen
an unknown stranger will celebrate with joy
just another mother, father’s boy.
If for purpose a reason to be born
surely it is not to die for someone else’s cause,
if this poem does not quite make sense
then to die a young man neither!
The hand that guides then pulls the trigger; simply
just a servant of a mind, of a mind far bigger!
© Harry J Horsman 2014
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