The Silent Guns and Scouting Fun

The canvas tents, a khaki tight, Beneath Corregidor's fading light. The island breeze, a salty sigh, A memory beneath that sky. The echoing silence stark and deep, Where wartime secrets used to sleep. A crackling fire, a fragile gleam, Lost in a half-forgotten dream. The scent of earth and ocean spray, Where history lingered come what may. Learning knots with youthful zest, On ground where heroes found their rest. The bugle's call, a morning sound, Across the hallowed scarred ground. The flag held high, a solemn grace, In that historic poignant place. The mess kit clanging soft and low, A quiet rhythm to and fro. The laughter shared, a gentle rhyme, On land where battles were in prime. The ghost stories whispered near, Of spirits held both far and dear. The twinkling stars, a silent guide, Where echoes of the past abide. The camaraderie strong and pure, On soil that would forever endure. The shared adventures hand-in-hand, On Corregidor's historic sand. The tunnels dark, a chilling breath, A brush with stories close to death. The silent guns, a rusting row, A weight of history soft and slow. Now years have passed, the island stands, A testament in weathered hands. But in my heart, the memories stay, Of scouting days in that unique way. A flicker of the campfire's glow, Where history and boyhood grow. On Corregidor beneath the sun, Those early eighties now long done. ©bfa040925