The Boy
The distant flash of guns, like fireworks
in Yorkshire Dales, a November, long past;
soon followed by deep rumbling, thunder
that usually precedes rain, but not today.
The boy, marching, singing with his pals
moving ever further from Tipperary.
Wherever that was.
Soon, ragged men start passing,
arriving from where he's going.
The boy thinks he sees a friend
it's hard to tell;
there's just a gaping hole below the eyes
the man groping for a dangling mandible
trying to reassemble a face;
dying questioning eyes meet.
A growling sergeant moves them on,
"forward, boys."
The singing stops
eyes dart from side to side
the proud upright march
becoming a bowed, furtive walk.
Tomorrow, the boy will take his gun
and march across
as un-yet fields of scarlet poppies
towards the enemy;
or so he's told.
He will never pull the trigger,
he will not have time.
GUNS Poetry Contest: Placed 1st.
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
Date wrote: 25-04-2021
Copyright © Terry Miller | Year Posted 2021
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