The odd small child has copped it,

A writer here, a pensioner,

And, just around the corner,

An engineer.

It’s the same old detritus of war;

Keep moving now,

There’s nothing to see,

Nothing to fear.

The single mum with stumps for legs

Has made somebody’s day,

Just like the school and hospital,

Each with rooves blown away.

More detritus, but life goes on...

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‘Your country needs you!’

Came the breathless whine,

As we put our names

On the dotted line.

Everyone went;

We all joined the queue.

No questions were asked.

None of us knew

About proper war;

We weren’t playing games:

Grenades in an ambush,

A tank crew in flames.

Although we were told

That problems were shared,

It soon became clear

That ...

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A cemetery, you may think, but

No bodies lie beneath, just roots;

No unattested arms remain,

No pairs of sweaty, unclaimed boots.

Quite soon there will be vines and grapes,

And then the succulence of wine;

No trace of blown-off body parts,

Detached by shell shot or by mine.

The volunteers who tend the place

Sense no souls planted underground;

They prune and ...

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On winter days, with frosted breath,

We wander to the warm, great hall

To see this sacred scene once more.

A mother mourns her perished son,

As mothers do across the world,

While washed-up men, most often old,

Pick off the innocent for sport.

Grouped women, tethered in their grief,

Mop up the personal effects,

Doused in their humid, sodden tears.

Soon, beyond anger, b...

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